


Marriage and Other Forms of War

by sunsolace



Series: Lantern in the Dark [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Romance, Smut, Spoilers, The Institute - Freeform, The Minutemen - Freeform, The Railroad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 228,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9919994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsolace/pseuds/sunsolace
Summary: The Institute has fallen. But while the Commonwealth celebrates, Kaelyn Prescott can only find it in herself to grieve. It's all over.Or it's supposed to be.She isn't the only one in the business of vengeance these days, and Vault 111 has one final secret to be exhumed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look at my life look at my choices. What started as nothing more than than an idle what-if has gotten so far out of hand it isn’t funny. I started writing this in February 2016 and is in fact my first Fallout fic. It feels _so good_ to finally have it polished enough to post. 
> 
> As always, my previous fics in Lantern in the Dark aren’t necessary to read this fic, but are there if you want some background. Except for What Makes a Memory, which can’t exist in the same timeline.
> 
>  
> 
> **CW for suicide mention in this chapter.**
> 
>  
> 
> Recommended listening: [Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMBTvuUlm98)

_Where must we go…_  
_We who wander this Wasteland_  
_In search of our better selves?_  
—The First History Man, _Mad Max: Fury Road_  
  
  
_You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you._  
—Leon Trotsky  
  
_—_  
  
_part one: weighty things do drag_  
  
_—_

For a second time, Kaelyn Prescott witnesses her world collapse in a burst of fire and radiation.  
  
Instead of evacuating with the rest of the assault party, Kaelyn doubles back for Shaun. The sounds of last ditch combat echo down the once-pristine corridors; some poor fools are locked in a dance that will end in fire no matter the victor. A scientist groans and stretches out his arm when Kaelyn passes. In a curse or a cry for help, she doesn’t know. His other arm is wedged underneath his stomach, but from the growing puddle of red spreading over the floor, his efforts are in vain. She doesn’t stop and she doesn’t listen.  
  
Ten minutes.  
  
Tinker Tom had yelped when she’d told them to go without her—“Whatcha gonna do? Grab a souvenir?”—but Desdemona had laid a hand on his arm and surveyed Kaelyn as if she could see through the power armor. Maybe she could.  
  
“Just give me ten minutes. Then hit the button—whether or not I’m at the rendezvous point.”  
  
Another hard-eyed look from Desdemona, then she had agreed. “You have ten minutes. Get whatever you want, then get yourself out of here. That’s an order.”  
  
Cursing the stairs, Kaelyn barrels upward as fast as her T-51 suit allows. Her HUD flashes red with alerts: damage in the left leg, the hip, suit breach in the shoulder. That courser had been onto something when he’d tried to cripple her armor.  
  
He hadn’t counted on a rifle that shoots railway spikes at high velocity.  
  
Shaun lies still on the bed. Kaelyn freezes in the doorway. A flash of heat surges through her, morphing a chill as it rushes towards her extremities. Her stomach is a leadened thing, expanding until it presses on her lungs, her heart.  
  
_Is he...?_  
  
Shaun turns his head, and the world rights itself.  
  
His eyes find her encased in an old world relic of war at odds with the Institute’s sleek aesthetic. “No. Not you. Not now. I told you to go!”  
  
He’s in no position to stop her from doing anything, let alone crossing the room to his side, and they both know it. “You can fight me if you want, and we’ll both die in the blast.” It isn’t meant as a threat. As she bends down to pick Shaun up, blankets and all, her nerves are calm and her pulse has only quickened from the climb.  
  
Even with the strength of her power armor, a grown man should not be this light. His face is gaunt, making his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief. How did he deteriorate so quickly?  
  
If not for the shrubs in the garden and her elderly son in her arms, Kaelyn would jump down the stairwell. She has to make do with pushing the armor to its limits. It’s strangely appropriate to carry her son again, away from another disaster, bundled in her arms as if he’s six months old.  
  
Five minutes.  
  
The elevator is excruciatingly slow and offers a prime view of the destruction. The concourse is littered with bodies and bullet holes, and the fountains flows with blood. More than one corpse floats in the water. Once-sterile silver walls and floors are smeared with trails of red that record the battle’s movements. What had started in the relay swept downward in a flurry of chaos that had left the Institute disoriented, spreading through the gardens and outward to each research sector.  
  
The Synth Retention Bureau and Robotics Division have sustained the worst damage, as the fiercest fighting raged between the rebelling synths and their former masters. The grass is churned and muddy from spilled blood, and one slender tree has been felled entirely from gunfire.  
  
Shaun turns his head away from the destruction, pained. “What are you hoping to achieve? To salvage? Do you think this matters anymore?”  
  
“I am not letting you die here, Shaun,” Kaelyn grits out.  
  
“This is my _home,_ Mother.”  
  
It is, and the part of her that acknowledges that fact is drowned out by frantic grief. “I won’t be responsible for the death of my own son.” If he’s still alive now, and if she hadn’t delayed Desdemona…  
  
“No, but you’re responsible for the deaths of my colleagues, my friends, and my people. That is _much_ better,” he agrees, with enough acid to strip paint from a suit of power armor.  
  
“We evacuated as many people as we could. Anyone who agreed to stop fighting.”  
  
Shaun merely sighs and tries to arrange himself with greater dignity, but he is marginally more relaxed.  
  
Finally, finally, they reach the relay. Here the fight had been swift, catching Institute workers by surprise. There are fewer signs of battle and more signs of sudden executions. Starbursts of red, flecked with thicker tissue, decorate the walls in grisly patterns. Someone has dragged all of the bodies to the side of the room where they won’t be tripped over and arranged them with some respect, leaving thick streaks of red across the floor. The soles of Kaelyn’s boots are covered in blood long before she reaches the terminal.  
  
Tinker Tom has left coordinates for the rendezvous point, but Kaelyn punches in a different set after a quick consult with her pip-boy. She steps into the relay and the white-blue beam consumes them, needling them with ice and fire simultaneously. Kaelyn’s knees buckle when they hit concrete. Cold, impersonal light is replaced with uneven shadows and circles of blue-toned illumination. Impeccably smooth floor becomes old concrete. And the panicked evacuation alarm is replaced by the cool alert of a critical failure in the cryogenic array.  
  
“Where… are we?” Shaun wheezes.  
  
Kaelyn takes in Vault 111. “The one place that’s safe from a nuclear explosion.”  
  
She lowers Shaun to the ground as gently as she can manage and steps back to climb out of her armor. It powers down with a whine and the back piece splits open like a metallic clamshell to free her from the trappings of a soldier. Kaelyn drops to her knees beside her son and carefully arranges him over her lap, his head resting against her shoulder. His skin is several tones lighter than her own copper, but darker than Nate’s had been. Somewhere in between.  
  
She holds him close as if they will be able to feel the shock wave down here. Surely her ten minutes of borrowed time are up, but her arm is supporting Shaun’s shoulders so she can’t check her pip-boy. Through his back, she can feel his lungs working quick and shallow.  
  
The cryo pods, long since become sarcophagi, loom around them loom like statues guarding the walls of a lost mausoleum.  
  
Shaun is able to crane his head, and guesses at their purpose. “So this… is it. Where it all began.”  
  
“Where it all ended,” she corrects.  
  
Shaun closes his eyes. His inhale is as sharp as a slap. “Just… tell me why, Mother.”  
  
“Because I love you. I’ll always love you, no matter what. Because your father loved you. We loved you, and the Institute took you from us.” Her voice, already hoarse, tightens into a hiss by the end. Unwilling yet magnetized, her gaze is drawn upward to one pod in the array. Even if it isn’t opposite the lone open casket, even if she doesn’t recognize the silhouette slumped behind the observation window, she would know from the scratches and smears of dried blood on the lid. “Why should I forgive that?”  
  
Shaun follows her gaze, and he tenses in her arms. His eyes grow hooded. “Sometimes I wondered what it would have been like, had things… been different. But the future of humanity is more important than one man’s desires. Progress has always demanded sacrifice. We did what we must to preserve humanity.”  
  
Kaelyn stops, draws in a deep breath. And then another. Until she can look down at her dying son with something akin to pity. “Do you know the source of every conflict in human history?” she asks softly. “It began when someone saw their enemy as less than human. The Institute could have done _so much_ to help the Commonwealth, and you did _nothing_. Worse than nothing—they were only test subjects to you. Their lives, their _humanity,_ meant nothing to you. This was inevitable.”  
  
She’s captured Shaun’s attention, that much is clear. His familiar eyes, hazel flecked with green, peer up at her with an intensity she recalls seeing in the mirror. “Was it truly? Or is that merely what you tell yourself?”  
  
Her throat closes. Several moments pass before she can whisper, “War—war never changes.”  
  
“I wanted… I only wanted what was best for the future of humanity.” He grows restless, shifting in her arms and twisting up the blanket.  
  
Feeling the heat radiating from the blanket, Kaelyn loosens its hold on him. “And you tried, as best you knew how.” Not something she ever expected to say, but in this quiet space, hovering between life and death, she realizes she doesn’t want make it worse than she already has. “Shh.” She smooths sweat from his wrinkled brow. Tries not to remember her own _tatta,_ or wonder when he died in the Great War. “It’s over now. You were right when you said it doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t want to fight. It’s too late for fighting.”  
  
Shaun settles under her touch, like he did as a baby. But he isn’t that infant; hasn’t been for decades. She grips one of his hands and his cold fingers close around her own. His mouth is moving, voice wheezing, and Kaelyn leans over to hear him repeat himself. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll protect them. Any... survivors.”  
  
“I promise.” She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back. His grip is alarmingly weak, the skin on his fingers sagging between the bony knuckles of each joint. Dark blotches mottle the back of his hand, webbing between the prominent veins under his skin.  
  
Shaun’s breathing slows, then stops.  
  
Her heart stops, too. Her eyes dart over his face, his chest, his neck—  
  
And then his chest rises again.  
  
She holds him while they wait. Looks to the ceiling of this cavernous tomb, letting the cold prick away the moisture in her eyes. When she glances down again, he’s gone.  
  
Kaelyn continues to hold Shaun. She leans over, like a pillar felled by lightning, and presses her face into the scratchy blanket. Even the creaking and dripping of the vault have gone quiet.  
  
For a second time, a nuclear detonation heralds a new age into the Commonwealth.

—

She carries the body with her. Not literally; that is shrouded in Vault 111. But all she can feel is the press of Shaun’s dead weight against her chest, the noodle-limpness in her arms, as the vault elevator rises to the stars. On the horizon, towards Boston, hangs a gray shroud of dust coughed upward by a mighty blow.  
  
All Kaelyn can do is flop onto her bed, press her face into the pillow, and let blessed exhaustion overwhelm her. Oblivion is soft and dark and welcoming, and doesn’t last nearly long enough. She only wakes because a thin metal chain is cutting into her neck. Pulling it loose, she runs her thumb over Nate’s dog tags. Curls her fist around them until the edges cut into her palm.  
  
_I’m sorry._  
  
She rolls out of bed and almost clips her head on the nightstand when her legs seize up. It’s easier to just lie on the ground for a while, congealing, her cheek pressed into the cold floor. Her body aches. Her eyes ache. Her chest aches. Rolling onto her back with a grimace, she takes stock of her injuries. Stretching her toes calls attention to the hot, pounding ache in her left knee and the tightness in her calves. Dark bruises mar her torso and shoulders where the armor frame dug into her skin, converting would-be bullet wounds into blunt force impacts.  
  
She holds her hands above her face, turning them this way and that, feeling every strain from gripping her rifle too tightly. Bright red heat pulses behind her eyes, and her eyelids feel gritty and swollen.  
  
All in all, it could be worse.  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t know how long it takes to scrounge the will to sit up. Her head pounds and white lights burst over her eyes, and she leans heavily against the bed frame. When her head stops trying to roll off her shoulders, she makes it to her feet. The first thing she does is scrounge for her patrolman glasses on the nightstand. Then she hobbles to the kitchen.  
  
“Ah, good morning, Miss Kaelyn! Or should I say, good afternoon?” Codsworth’s enthusiasm is almost offensive, even if it is a product of his programming.  
  
“How long was I out?” Her voice is thick with sleep and grief.  
  
“You slept almost a full day, mum.” Now the eye stalks on his dome droop a little, and his voice grows somber. “We weren’t expecting you to be home so soon.”  
  
“It’s all over,” she tells him.  
  
Codsworth nags her until she accepts a bowl of razorgrain porridge. She sits at the kitchen island, elbows on the counter top, lacing her hands together. Steam rises from the bowl, misting her palms with humidity, and her stomach constricts.  
  
Her thoughts turn, of all things, to Kellogg. When the battle fever had cooled, and the eerie silence had descended, and he’d found the remains of his family, what had he done? How many steps were there from the bodies of his wife and daughter to the body of her husband?  
  
Hadn’t Kellogg warned her how futile her cause was?  
  
Kaelyn presses her forehead into her knotted hands. “I am not Kellogg. I will not be Kellogg.”  
  
Somewhere, his ghost is laughing.  
  
While she stares into nothing, Codsworth is most excellent at politely detaining unwelcome visitors. “Miss Kaelyn is not receiving visitors right now, but can I interest you in some tea? Coffee?”  
  
Later, Kaelyn finds a shovel and, with Dogmeat trotting beside her, explores the slopes that give Sanctuary Hills its name. Instead of following the trail up to the vault, she pulls a sharp right and limps up the slant behind the creek. She marks trunks with her switchblade so she won’t lose her way. The maples grow taller, their trunks girthier, sunlight slanting through webs of slender withered branches. At the top of the ridge is a small clearing where nothing has been able to take root. Thick rock marks a sudden drop off.  
  
Standing well back from the edge, she looks down the valley. Blue and yellow peek through the canopy below: Sanctuary Hills’ cheery houses, their rusted brightness out of place among the gray and brown.  
  
Grave digging is harder work than Kaelyn imagined. The earth is dry as old bones, ground up into bone meal and packed down tight; her shovel leaves tiny dings in the ground when she drives the blade down. It takes minutes to a cut a hole the size of her fist.  
  
Sweat rolls down Kaelyn’s back in rivulets to puddle at the small of her back. Within minutes she is drenched. The sun burns in the sky behind her, hurling every ounce of energy it can muster, and heat radiates upward from the ground. Stringy clumps of hair glue themselves to her temples and down the nape of her neck. She swipes the back of a hand over her forehead to dislodge the rough-cut strands, and grimaces at the feel of grime smearing over her skin. A waft of body odor swirls around her at the motion.  
  
A chitinous scritching has Kaelyn vaulting out of the hole. She bashes the first radroach to death while Dogmeat jumps to pull a second out of the air. She barely raises the shovel in time to block the third. It bounces back, wings faltering, and she swings the shovel like a bat. Hitting the roach with the broad side of the blade, she cuts it out of the air. Dogmeat pounces on the second chew toy and rips one of its wings off. Nudging him away with her boot, Kaelyn drives the shovel down to decapitate it.  
  
That doesn’t stop its body from wandering around for a few minutes, however.  
  
Kaelyn returns to digging. She has to estimate the length, and prays it is deep enough. When her arms tremble from exhaustion and her back is a mass of hurt, she tosses the shovel out of the pit and clambers out with some effort. She doesn’t go to the vault right away, instead returning home.  
  
“Ah, Miss Kaelyn! If I may, you look rather disheveled. Would you like me to heat water for a clean up?”  
  
Her voice almost stays even. “I’m going to— to bury Shaun, Codsworth.”  
  
“Oh.” Codsworth follows her out of the kitchen, hesitates, hovering in the living room. “Shall… shall I accompany you, mum?”  
  
“If you want to be there. You’re a part of this family,” she tells him, and could swear his circuits hum with pride.  
  
“Of course, mum!”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t have the heart to banish Dogmeat. He’s as much family as Codsworth is these days. So she takes what remains of her family to Vault 111, and carries Shaun’s body to his grave. Despite the perpetual chill in the vault, the smell isn’t pretty. She kneels down beside the hole and overbalances, almost topples face-down into the hole on top of him. The body slips from her grasp and lands, crooked, brown feet catching on the edge of the grave. Adjusting her position, she grabs his shoulders through the blanket and pulls him fully into the hole.  
  
She buries her only son in a shallow hand-dug grave. Tries to ignore the heavy _plink_ of dirt landing on his body. The heat behind her eyes won’t go away, but it doesn’t burst, either. She tries to think of the right words, but they catch in her chest like thorns.  
  
_I’m sorry._  
  
_I love you._  
  
_I’m sorry._

—

These recent days are a blur of things that might have happened and things she only half-remembers. Absence isn’t so bad, she decides.  
  
Somewhere on the road, past Concord but before Boston proper, Dogmeat takes off down the street. His barks are playful, so Kaelyn shoves Deliverer back into its holster.  
  
It’s only Valentine, who looks immensely relieved. Valentine, who sweeps her into a hug the moment she’s within reach. She leans into him, throws an arm around his neck, and breathes in the scent of cigarette smoke and motor oil that cling to his coat.  
  
“There you are. Thought I might be in the market for a new partner.”  
  
What’s meant to be a laugh comes out as a sob. “You’re still stuck with me, buddy.” She presses her forehead into his shoulder, feeling the whirr of machinery in lieu of a heartbeat. “Nick. It’s Shaun. He’s— I went back for him and—”  
  
“Oh, I’m _sorry_. I know none of this is what you wanted.”  
  
Her laugh is muffled and bitter. “You can say that again.”  
  
They let go of each other, and Valentine relays the news while they head south. Three days ago, the Commonwealth Institute of Technology exploded, throwing up a thick cloud like a rippling banner to mark the spot. Dust had shaken loose in the shock wave, blanketing the streets in a dry brown fog. Things have mostly calmed down now, he says, since folks put two and two together. No one is certain, of course, but enough suspicions of the Institute’s location abound that Diamond City is openly celebrating. For now people are relieved, but that will give way to uncertainty as long as there is a power vacuum, and with uncertainty comes fear.  
  
“This is a brave new world you’ve ushered in,” Valentine says. “Bu- _ut_ I suppose it’ll do.”  
  
He might have said something else, but she is miles away. Valentine grabs her sleeve and Kaelyn halts, eyes snapping around for familiar landmarks. The sun now shines around the sheeted clouds, weak and gray, from the western sky. They are at the river—but there is too much open space between the buildings.  
  
The Commonwealth Institute of Technology is gone.  
  
Where the proud building once stood, its pillars holding up a roof that refused to collapse under a nuclear apocalypse, is a crater flooded with brown river water. A brackish lagoon swallows chunks of unstable debris that have toppled down the steep bank. The empty space yawns like the maw of some great beast, inundated in a sense of wrongness. Radiation clings to the air like so many furious ghosts haunting the living, pressing down with a near-tangible weight on any surfacer who dares to step into their sphere.  
  
“And the people of the Commonwealth slept soundly, for the greatest monster was gone.” Valentine halts beside her, the brim of his fedora tipped low as he surveys the damage. “It took a lotta guts to push that button. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”  
  
Kaelyn can only stare at the hole in the ground. Another subterranean grave. _I did this._ “It— it had to be done.”  
  
Valentine’s hand lands on her shoulder. The one with its artificial dermis intact, allowing him to squeeze her shoulder without cutting off blood supply to her arm. “You’ll get no arguments from me.”  
  
“I wish there’d been another way.”  
  
A sigh behind her. “Me too, partner. Me too. But the Institute made their bed, and now they have to lie in it.” A pause. “It’s hard to even wrap your head around. A world without the Institute lurking in the shadows. But that’s the life the people of the Commonwealth get to lead now. All thanks to you. Whatever else this is to you, remember that.”  
  
They have to detour north-east through the suburbs around ground zero. The explosion destroyed the _USS Riptide,_ and they must track along the north bank to the next unbroken bridge.  
  
Kaelyn blinks, and they are almost at the end of the Freedom Trail. Blood spots her jacket sleeve.  
  
Valentine taps on her arm—the steel hand, this time—and jerks his chin towards the alleyway beside Old North Church. A figure leans against the bricks, cigarette in hand, her plaid scarf loose to dangle down her side. Desdemona looks so very _tired,_ her shoulders bowed under her faded vest, and it speaks to the exhaustion lingering in Kaelyn’s bones.  
  
She wonders if she should interrupt, or let Desdemona have a moment of quiet.  
  
The choice is taken from her when Desdemona’s gaze sweeps the area and land square on Kaelyn. Relief paints stark lines on her gray face. “There you are! I’m glad you made it out, Whisper.” Desdemona, as fierce and swift as a storm, as ruthless as the winds that lash and the rains that spit cold fury. Of course she hit the button when her allotted ten minutes were up.  
  
Valentine keeps his distance, leaning against the alley entrance, but Kaelyn comes to a halt beside her. “You too.”  
  
For the first time they are not Desdemona and Whisper, leader and heavy, but two women turning their faces up to the drizzle. The rain is polluted with dust, hanging from Kaelyn’s lashes like tiny clouded jewels. The women share a minute of quiet camaraderie, the rain misting their hair with pearly droplets.  
  
“When you didn’t arrive at the detonation site— well, Deacon will be relieved. Not that he’ll ever admit it.”  
  
Something in her chest eases, knowing Deacon made it out safely. “Of course not. He’s got a reputation to maintain.”  
  
“And so the mighty have fallen. Dozens of years, countless sacrifices. It all paid off thanks to you.” A quirk of her lips, softer than her typical smirk, is accompanied by a quick snort. “Deacon says this was his plan all along.”  
  
It manages to pull a ghost of a smirk to Kaelyn’s lips. “Deacon’s a damn liar.”  
  
Desdemona chuckles and drops her cigarette to crush it with a twist of her heel. “It’s almost comforting to know some things never change. Did you find what you were looking for in the Institute?”  
  
Kaelyn’s chest constricts. “No.”  
  
“My condolences for the loss of your son.” Genuine sympathy threads through Desdemona’s tone. But in the undercurrent: _for the Director who oversaw countless abuses, less so._ She turns to head back inside.  
  
“I’ll leave you to your business,” Valentine says. “You’ll come back this way? I’ll be waiting.”  
  
Kaelyn makes a vague noise that could be construed as agreement and enters Old North Church.  
  
Desdemona halts her when they step onto the pulpit. Like storm clouds marching on a swift wind, her expression darkens and closes over. Here is the woman who has endured a thousand cuts and yet lives to retaliate against her foes. “Before we head in, a word. Patriot didn’t make it out of the Institute. He died during the evacuation. Are we clear?”  
  
If not for that last line, Kaelyn would have bought it. “There’s more to this story.”  
  
She doesn’t have it in her to be surprised by death anymore. It doesn’t hurt as much as it perhaps should, to learn of a teenager’s untimely demise.  
  
Desdemona gives her a flinty look. “No, there isn’t. It was a tragic accident.” She brushes past Kaelyn, taking the lead, and slips something into Kaelyn’s palm.  
  
Kaelyn takes a moment to ascertain that it is folded paper, creased and smudged with dirt.  
  
“Not here, Whisper. We have a funeral to attend.”  
  
Tucking it away, Kaelyn follows Desdemona. The bodies have been moved, those of friend and foe alike, but blood and bullet holes are more than enough to recount the story. Down the stairs, through the basement, past the dark stains puddled near the thickest clusters of bullet holes, and into HQ. Neither Kaelyn nor Desdemona want to look at the spot where Glory drew her last breath.  
  
In the undercroft, a crowd circles one of the crypts. A gurney provides a splash of color among the grays and greens that paint the chamber in a dreary palette. On that gurney lies a cold body, of course. Liam Binet. Patriot.  
  
Desdemona delivers a glowing eulogy, lamenting the loss of a boy she never met and honoring his final sacrifice. The letter burns a hole in Kaelyn’s pocket. Her stomach churns.  
  
Something is very wrong.  
  
_It’s a symbol,_ Kaelyn realizes. _She’s burying Patriot, not Liam._  
  
Four agents carry Patriot’s body to a carefully excavated hole in the wall, and slide him into place.  
  
“Rest easy, knowing your sacrifice hasn’t been in vain,” one of the pallbearers says, then lays the first brick. The gathered agents each place a stone, one by one, until Liam is entombed within the ancient walls. Kaelyn holds the brick that covers his face. She lines it up with care, pushes it into the wet mortar with a squelch. When it is done Tinker Tom adheres a brass plaque over the spot. Whatever the adhesive is, it smells repugnant.  
  
Kaelyn glances away and notices fresh mortar in other six-foot rectangles along the wall. _Is Glory buried here? Is High Rise?_  
  
They file back into the undercroft proper, and Desdemona motions Kaelyn over. “In days gone by, when us old timers waxed rhapsodic about life without the Institute, we recognized our work wouldn’t end immediately. Hate runs deep in the Commonwealth. And we’d be stupid to think what remains of the Institute won’t launch some sort of retaliation.” Her eyes glow in the dim light, reflecting flecks of gold from a nearby lantern like rays of light peeking through clouds. “Our work isn’t over, Whisper, not by a long shot. I’d understand if you want a much-needed vacation, but are you up for the next mission?”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t feel sick anymore. She feels numb. “I sacrificed the last of my family for you. I can’t give you any more.”  
  
Desdemona, surprisingly, doesn’t fight. Her stormy gray eyes soften like the first gentle rains. “You’ve more than earned that. But if you ever change your mind, we’ll keep a lantern lit for you.”  
  
There’s no reason to prolong this. Kaelyn retreats. It should hurt, she thinks, to turn her back on the ragtag misfits who brought her into the fold, but she’s too exhausted to care.  
  
She blinks and finds herself standing on the bridge north of the church. In the open, by the railing, with the incessant coastal breeze throwing her hair into her eyes. Easy pickings for a sniper. Deacon will have her head if he sees this. Instead of moving to safety, she leans on the railing and, thinking of how Desdemona’s eyes had turned steely at mention of Patriot, pulls Liam’s letter out of her jacket.  
  
Kaelyn immediately regrets it.

> _You betrayed me. ME! After all I did for you. I trusted you. I risked everything to help synths. To help you. And this? THIS is how you repay me?_  
>    
>  _My father is dead. Everyone I cared about was vaporized or lost in this barren irradiated shithole. Because of you._  
>    
>  _I used to feel sorry for you, you know. You lost your son. You missed out on almost all of his life. But it’s only what you deserved. You don’t even realize you’ve destroyed humanity’s best hope for the future. And I helped you do it. If there’s any fairness in the world, you won’t outlive my father._  
>    
>  _I can’t live with myself._  
> 

She can’t breathe. Bile crawls up her throat; hot, acidic, vile. Liam. Idealistic, compassionate Liam, without whom few synths would have ever escaped the Institute. Liam, naive enough to not notice the undercurrent to her probing questions on using violence to free synths.  
  
Underneath, in a different hand, this one a loopy script: _Destroy this once you’ve read it._  
  
She tears the letter, strip by strip, until all that’s left are fragments that flutter like ash into the swirling gray waters below. Still following orders, like a good little agent. Kaelyn watches them drift on the surface, swept away by the current and then swept under until there is nothing left of the truth.

—

Sanctuary again.  
  
Kaelyn descends into Vault 111 once more to retrieve her power armor. She doesn’t linger. The fusion core wrings out its last burst of energy that is sucked greedily into the weary systems. Much like human injuries, the armor feels stiff in its damaged joints. Red symbols scrawl over half the screen, warning of total cascade failure.  
  
Sturges whistles, somewhere between awed and aghast, as she stomps towards the car port that has become his base of operations. “What did you _do_ to this thing?”  
  
“That damage could have been the suit, or it could have been me. Take your pick.”  
  
“Point taken. Still, I hope you weren’t banking on taking this anywhere any time soon.” Nevertheless, Sturges is pleased to have something to do with his hands. Wiping sweat from his pale brow, he gets to work.  
  
Kaelyn wanders to the outskirts of Sanctuary until she finds Preston, mid-way through his patrol of the perimeter, in the space between the broken fence lines and the fast-flowing water. He reminds her of the monument perched on the bank of the river: a lonely sentinel with his hat half-cocked and the tails of his coat flaring behind him. Walls crumble, hands falter, but he remains. Preston glances back, hands tightening on his laser musket until he confirms she’s a friend.  
  
“Afternoon, General.” Preston’s smiles are always easy and quick, a toothless twist of his lips. “Was there something you needed?”  
  
“I wanted to talk to you.” Gravel, tumbled smooth by the tannin-stained waters, crunches under their boots. They halt to watch weak gray sunlight dance between the maples lining the river.  
  
“Shoot.”  
  
“Preston, I’m going to step down from my position. And I can’t think of anyone better qualified than you to fill the role.” Kaelyn could have framed it in a congratulatory manner, called it a promotion, but he will fight and she won’t insult him by attempting manipulation.  
  
“Whoa, hold up! You’re stepping down?” He says it the way one would say ‘you drowned puppies?’ “And you want _me_ to be the General? Can’t you see how much you’ve done for the Minutemen and the Commonwealth?”  
  
Kaelyn gives him a sad smile. “The Minutemen deserve a leader who can put them first. I’ve neglected my duties too much, and you all deserve better. The Commonwealth deserves better.”  
  
“What makes you think I can do this?” He looks almost panicked now.  
  
“What makes you think _I’m_ qualified for this?” Kaelyn returns. “This is an acknowledgment of the work you’ve already done. You’re the one who guarded the survivors from Quincy. You’re the one who never gave up. Rebuilding the Minutemen was your idea. You’re the one liaising over the radio. So yes, I think you can lead the Minutemen, and lead them well.”  
  
“But still, this is sudden. Why are you leaving now?”  
  
“Who said anything about leaving? I’ll still be here, and I can help if you need it.” Preston isn’t quite convinced, so she rests her hand on his shoulder. “You can do this, Preston. Are you going to let a repeat of Quincy ever happen again?”  
  
“Not on my watch.” Preston becomes resolute. He looks her over one final time, seeking a chink in her armor, some indication that she’s joking, then nods. Shakily. Then again, firmer. “All right. I’ll do it.”  
  
Kaelyn has spent enough time around military personnel that she can pull off a half-decent salute. “General.”  
  
“I guess this means I can order you around now.” His smile is tentative but genuine.  
  
“Like you haven’t already,” she returns, and then guilt twists her stomach. _Shaun is dead and you’re cracking jokes? What’s wrong with you?_  
  
Preston nudges her gently, breaking her from her thoughts. “So what happened to your power armor?”  
  
Upon learning of the Institute’s downfall, Sanctuary Hills’ reaction is to throw a party. Kaelyn feels a stab of betrayal, but doesn’t stop Preston and Sturges from pulling together enough dining tables to seat all of the residents in Rosa’s car port. Kaelyn’s T-51 armor hangs in its cradle behind her, helmet drooping and limbs limp. Sturges has already begun repairs, but from the way he’s been pulling his tongue between his teeth and swearing, Kaelyn wagers the damage is more severe than she had believed.  
  
Despite the impromptu nature of the gathering, Codsworth somehow scrapes together several elaborate meals: a mystery curry close enough to the real thing that Kaelyn almost cries, brahmin roast with some kind of gravy, and a creamy soup that can only be described as seafood-inspired. Sturges breaks out a bottle of whiskey he’s carried since Quincy.  
  
After a few bites, the richness turns her stomach. Kaelyn pushes the food around on her plate, pours herself another finger of bourbon, and sneaks bits of her dinner to Dogmeat. Preston also slips something under the table, Mama Murphy openly shares her roast, and soon Dogmeat plops down at her feet looking rather pleased with himself.  
  
Thankfully, Sanctuary’s residents quickly work out Kaelyn isn’t in the mood for sharing war stories, and none of them are so unfamiliar with loss that they think to press her for detail. Nick covers for her, and Kaelyn supposes she should thank him later. Jun sits beside her, and they don’t talk. Dogmeat rests his head in Kaelyn’s lap, his eyes shining green in the lantern light as he looks up at her. She scratches him behind one ear and he whistles through his nose, edging closer until his chest presses against her knees.  
  
A cascade of laughter echoes around the table, and Kaelyn flinches. She’d missed Mama Murphy’s punchline, but whatever it was has Sturges in tears.  
  
“If you need some quiet, it’s okay,” Jun murmurs to her. No matter how many months pass, the purple smudges under his eyes don’t fade. “I couldn’t handle being around people afterward. And I’m sorry about your son.”  
  
“Fresh air would be good,” Kaelyn agrees and, after downing the last of her drink, pushes away from the table.  
  
Out of the circle of warm yellow lanterns, the afternoon has long since dulled to a bleak twilight. The sky is half-choked by thick black clouds that stomp out the stars in their grasp. A gust of wind raises goosebumps her skin; she hadn’t realized just how much the cold has been kept at bay in the car port. Still, Kaelyn wanders down to the park. Enough alcohol hums in her blood to ward off the worst of the chill.  
  
The old playground juts out of the earth like splintered bones. When Kaelyn stops by one of the broken swings, she can practically taste that metallic decay in the air, like the rich smell of blood. Somewhere in the distance the river flows, quick and quiet, with just enough movement to tighten her nerves, warning of an impending attack.  
  
She doesn’t know how long she stands there; the distant laugher and yahooing behind her are a poor measure of time’s passage.  
  
“In need of company?” Valentine is smooth and soothing and far too casual as he approaches. He maintains a polite distance, as if she were the wife or sister of one of his witnesses and not his closest friend.  
  
Kaelyn only shoves her fists into her pockets in lieu of a response and closes the gap between them. Despite his synthetic roots, Valentine stands out because he is a city boy at heart, used to the crowing of drunkards over the jeering of ravens, and not because of the wires and coils peeking out from behind his collar.  
  
“First you quit the Railroad, and then you pass the fancy hat to Preston. Care to explain what’s going on behind those eyes of yours?”  
  
She flares. “Is it so hard to believe I’m not in a position where I can do anything, let alone handle responsibilities? Or people’s lives?”  
  
“No, it’s not hard. I’m just worried, is all.”  
  
She closes her eyes. Feels the breeze toying with the ragged ends of her hair. “Valentine. Nick. You’ve been a better friend than I could have ever asked for. You know that, right?”  
  
“This is sounding suspiciously like a goodbye.” He turns those burning yellow eyes onto her.  
  
“You’ve done so much for me, and I haven’t thanked you enough for it.”  
  
“You don’t have to,” he says with enough warmth that her heart aches. “That’s what friends are for. Now you listen here, partner. Take your time. Take all the time you need. Goodness knows you’re the one who’s bought it for the rest of the Commonwealth. And when you’re ready to rejoin the land of the living, we’ll be here. Just promise me one thing.”  
  
Everyone wants promises these days, apparently.  
  
“What is it?” She has to clear her throat; her voice is hoarse.  
  
“Promise me you _will_ come back.” He pins her under his luminous gaze, as bright as the lights inside the Institute but a hundred times warmer, and not for the first time she wonders how those blatantly artificial irises can hold so much depth.  
  
She gives a shrug. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”  
  
“It’s not for me, doll. It’s for you.”  
  
She makes an excuse to leave after that. Back at the car port, the others are still going strong. Marcy has had enough to drink that her trademark scowl has softened into hard-edged snickers. Mama Murphy has sunk low in her chair, snoring so loudly it can only be the entertainment factor that has stopped anyone from waking her up.  
  
Touching her arm, Kaelyn rouses the old woman. “Hey, Mama. How about we get you into a proper bed?”  
  
“Wha…? Su—” she yawns widely, her jaw cracking, turban askew, revealing her rotten teeth to the world. She swallows, a sticky sound, then wets her lips. “Sure, kid. Mama Murphy needs her beauty sleep.”  
  
It is a slow, arduous process to get Mama Murphy out of the chair. Her old bones, secured by worn tendons, are uncooperative after being still for so long. Her formerly pink and fluffy slippers have little tread to grip the concrete with. But they manage, and Mama Murphy receives various good nights from their neighbors.  
  
For the second time, Kaelyn walks out of that little circle of warmth and into the cold embrace of night. When they are out of earshot, Kaelyn leans over to Mama Murphy’s ear. “You’ll look after Dogmeat if— if anything ever happens?”  
  
She's more aware than ever how easy it is to die.  
  
Mama Murphy glances at her sidelong, with clouded rheumy eyes that are far too sharp. She takes her time responding. “Sure, kid. But Dogmeat, he looks after his friends. Are you gonna let him?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Let me walk you home.”  
  
As they shuffle up the front drive, Mama Murphy’s voice drops to a reedy whisper. “You’re wearing a mask. You’re standing with... outcasts. The underdogs. The lanterns in the dark. I see a world that will never know your sacrifice. You have led the enslaved to freedom, but they must still hide from those who don’t understand. But you’ll be there for them. You’ll see their humanity when no one else will. You’ll be their guardian in the shadows.”  
  
Her voice raises the hairs on the back of Kaelyn’s neck. “Mama Murphy, you _didn’t.”_  
  
The old woman only squeezes Kaelyn’s arm and reaches for her front door. With one hand firmly entrenched in the crook of Kaelyn’s arm, she reaches for the door frame with the other to haul herself up the step. Kaelyn has to brace under the strength of her weight.  
  
“We’re not so different, kid. We’re both gonna protect our own with what we have. And we’re both gonna die one day.”  
  
Kaelyn pulls them both to a stop in the living room and faces Mama Murphy fully. When she grasps both of Mama Murphy’s hands in her own, she is surprised by the pang of grief for her own _amma_. Mama Murphy’s hands are gnarled and mottled, the joints swollen and the tips of her fingers a thick pink. Between the calluses, her palms are dry. No matter the ravages of age or the stiffness in her wrists, her grip is strong.  
  
“That’s all true. I know you only use the Sight to help. You’ve done so much already, and we don’t want to lose you over this. You don’t have to watch out for us anymore. It’s over.”  
  
“Oh, you think so?” Mama Murphy’s chuckle is almost pitying. She lifts one hand to touch Kaelyn’s cheek. “Have heart, kid. You’re gonna need it soon enough.”  
  
And with that, Mama Murphy shuffles down the hall. Kaelyn takes her leave, closing the door without slamming. Locks are meaningless here. No, they are worse than meaningless: they are lies.  
  
“Your first wrong prediction,” Kaelyn murmurs. Her fingers twitch on the door handle. “It is over.”  
  
Away from the car port the night is black and strong and unfeeling, and it is exactly what she needs right now. Kaelyn turns away from the lanterns, away from her friends. Instead of returning to the car port, she ducks around the back of the house to wander into her own backyard. She rights one of the deck chairs as she passes then steps over the broken fence into her neighbor’s yard.  
  
Laughter peals through the air like thunder, and Kaelyn flinches. She keeps going through back yards until she reaches the beginnings of the dirt pathway, flattened centuries ago by heavy machinery. Mrs Able had been aghast at the damage to her roses on the fence line, battered by passing construction workers and polluted with dust.  
  
With a final backwards glance, Kaelyn finds the trail in the dark.

—

Vault 111 remains unchanged. It always is, lurking in those dark spaces between reality and memory, a sepulchral cavern cast in cool blues and cold shadows. The weight of the earth above is a near-tangible weight pushing on her shoulders. She still doesn’t know how far underground the vault is. Kaelyn treads down the catwalk on soft feet. When she passes the swinging yellow gates onto solid ground her steps echo, _plunk-plunk-plunk,_ like stones dropped into a still black pond. Water drips from an unseen point in a higher-pitched counterpart.  
  
It’s more or less a straight line to the cryogenic array she’d been stored in. Observation windows to other bays line the walls; the pods could be blue or silver, like rows of shark’s teeth bared in the dark, their shapes indistinct from the flickering lights. Through the door into Bay C, down the stairs. Past the Callahans, who invited her and Nate around for dinner when they first moved in. Past the Ables. Kaelyn and Mrs Able shared family recipes, while Nate once helped Mr Able fix their car. And Mr Russell on the end, no family other than his poor terrier who limped on a once-broken leg.  
  
Their silhouettes stare down from their vantage points, ringing with silent accusation. Or maybe that’s just the blood buzzing in her ears.  
  
Kaelyn reaches the spot where her son died, where her husband died. There should be some way to distinguish the place other than the ice-cold burn in her chest, the imprint of cold concrete on her skin. On her knees, cradling her son. Or on all fours, coughing through the panicked bands of ice that had constricted her ribs.  
  
She stands, listless, in the unfeeling cold. Pulls her arms around her ribs so tightly they creak. The chill creeps down her neck, seeps into her bones.  
  
_What am I doing here?_  
  
Finally—finally her eyes thaw from the spot where Shaun drew his last breath and up to her husband. He’s a specter of ice and blood looming behind the glass, haloed by the back light so his face is in shadow. Despite the body filling the pod, it is so very _empty._  
  
She should leave. There’s nothing for her here.  
  
Kaelyn stretches her hand to the scratches that mar the lid, fits her fingers to their shapes. The blood has long since dried to a dull brown, almost black in the dim lights. Her fingernails ache at the frenzied memory.  
  
There’s no mistaking Nate for being asleep. Blood flecks the pod’s interior, staining the upholstery brown, turning the blue of his vault suit black. He’s slumped sideways, one stiff arm reaching up to cover the hole in his chest. Tiny icicles bead in his hair, darkening auburn to brown.  
  
She should— should bury him, too.  
  
Her hand hovers over the control panel. Her fingers tremble, but not with cold.  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t want to see this. She’s already watched him die twice—once from behind his murderer’s eyes, no less. Doesn’t want this to be her final memory of him: cold, stiff, unresponsive. But her feet refuse to turn, and her hand refuses to cycle the pod closed again. Machinery whirrs as it cycles through the thawing procedure, counting off the seconds with a mechanical heartbeat. The pod splits open with a hiss that is too loud in the chamber, bouncing off the metal walls. Mist and ice droplets flutter down to caress the ground on soft wings.  
  
Instead, Kaelyn takes a step closer. Another puts her foot on the tread, her booted toe knocking against his. It would be an easy thing to step inside and pull the hatch closed behind her. There’s no latch on the inside, as her once-bruised fists can attest.  
  
Kaelyn’s fingers brush over his wedding ring. His skin feels almost warm to her cold fingers.  
  
And then Nate’s hand balls into a fist as he gasps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Raise your hand if you saw that plot twist coming *raises hand*


	2. Chapter 2

Time stands still. It shimmers under the flickering blue lights, brightening and then dimming. Blue and black and gray. Splashes of red. And then Nate topples forward, bleeding, choking, scrambling. Her arms move before her mind can even comprehend— Kaelyn staggers under his weight, somehow manages to get her arms hooked under his armpits.  
  
His eyes focus on her. “Kaelyn!” He gasps. “You’re safe! Where’s— where’s—?”  
  
He’s bleeding, and she’s wasting time.  
  
Kaelyn lowers him to the ground as gently as she can; not very, with her knees giving out under his dead weight.  
  
_Living_ weight.  
  
Nate is on his back, one hand pressed to the gunshot wound. Her hands cover his, bearing down, forcing trickles of red to push through their fingers. Their panicked breaths mingle in the air.  
  
Kaelyn can only stare. The shock in his face is mirrored in hers.  
  
He’s alive. Shockingly, vibrantly _alive_. Gasping frigid air, his eyes wild and frantic. Fully thawed and flailing, he’s bleeding out fast. With every breath he takes, there’s a sucking noise.  
  
“Nate?” Her voice is a small and broken thing. “You’re—alive?”  
  
“Yeah,” he grits out, voice breathy from pain, and then coughs. Deep, chest wracking coughs that make Kaelyn wish she could roll him onto side, but she doesn’t dare lift her hands. His head moves, eyes rolling. Trying to scope the room, get his bearings. “They took Shaun— I tried to stop them but—”  
  
“Shh, shh. I know. I saw it.” Kaelyn looks around for a first aid kit, a stimpak, anything she can use to staunch the bleeding, but her eyes only find the bullet sitting in the upholstery. The back of the pod is sheeted in dark red that glistens wetly, rimmed in dark frost. Flecked with chunks of gore.  
  
“If I— don’t make it,” Nate bares his teeth and tenses under her hands, “promise me you’ll find him. Promise me you’ll find Shaun.”  
  
Her heart is breaking all over again. “Don’t talk like that!”  
  
Nate’s hand closes over her wrist. “Promise me.”  
  
_I already did._ The simplest thing to do is to agree, to ease his distress. “I promise.” Her voice cracks.  
  
“Good.” He lies back, closing his eyes.  
  
“Don’t take this as permission to give up.” Gripping his chin, Kaelyn forces him to meet her gaze. “Nathaniel Stewart Prescott, you will not die on me now!”  
  
He reaches up with one wavering hand. His fingers graze her jaw. “Love you.”  
  
“This isn’t goodbye. Now now. Not again.” Kaelyn almost grabs her belt, but realizes there’s no way to tie a tourniquet around a chest wound. Her jacket is too thick to tear, but if she could get her shirt off—  
  
Kaelyn cocks her head. Hears it more clearly. A dog’s bark. Frantic footsteps echoing through the vault.  
  
“Dogmeat!” And behind him— “Nick!”  
  
From the other side of the room, Valentine’s yellow eyes flash, two points of light in the dark, surveying the scene before him. “There you ar— what is _that?”_  
  
“I need to get this wound bandaged, now.” Kaelyn’s eyes alight on Dogmeat, running down the stairs. “Dogmeat! Find first aid!”  
  
With a quick bark, Dogmeat darts into an adjoining room, nose to the ground. Valentine follows, calling over his shoulder that he’ll be back.  
  
Kaelyn only has Nate’s labored breaths and her own frantic heartbeat to mark the passage of time. Beneath her hands, she can feel his chest move, when she’d believed it to be still forevermore. The wound is higher than she thought it was, situated above his right pectoral, but that awful sucking sound proves it hit a lung.  
  
“Argh—my brain feels frozen.” Nate shakes his head as if to clear it.  
  
_That’s because it was._ But she doesn’t say it. Now’s not the time.  
  
Valentine and Dogmeat burst into the chamber, the former carrying a first aid kit. He tosses a stimpak to Kaelyn, who wastes no time shoving the needle into Nate’s shoulder and depressing the syringe.  
  
Nate twitches. “Ow.”  
  
She uses another stimpak, just because. She looks to Valentine, who kneels on Nate’s other side and is already handing over a piece of plastic smeared with petroleum jelly to cover the entry wound. It forms a vacuum seal that allows air to escape, but not enter his lung.  
  
Nate makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a cry when they lift him up enough to get the bandages around his torso. Kaelyn whispers apologies and reassurances, trying to ignore the hitch in his breathing. When it’s over, her husband gives a desperate, breathless chuckle, staring up at the ceiling and baring his teeth. His breaths are ragged and shallow. Kaelyn’s stomach ices over when she sees concrete beneath him is slick with blood.  
  
Valentine tilts his head down to let the brim of his fedora mask his features. “Here, let’s get him bundled up before he catches a chill.” Between the two of them, they manage to wrangle Nate into a sitting position again and tuck the blanket around his shoulders. It’s only now, without a gaping wound to occupy Kaelyn’s attention, that she notices how badly Nate is trembling.  
  
“We need to get him to a doctor. Now!” She doesn’t know if it’s safe to move him—if they even can—but it’s a risk they have to take. Kaelyn touches Nate’s cheek. “Hon. Hon?” It takes several attempts before Nate’s gaze fixes on her, but even then his eyes are glassy. “I’m sorry, but we have to get you out of the vault, and then checked by a doctor.”  
  
Nate blinks once, twice, and nods as the words sink in. The stimpak has begun to take effect: his breathing isn’t quite so labored, and the pain creased into his face eases somewhat. Unfortunately that pain returns and then some when Kaelyn and Valentine hook his arms around each of their shoulders and heave.  
  
Valentine huffs as he gets a better grip, hiding his steel hand safely behind Nate’s back. “Good heavens, he’s heavy. What did you feed him? Baby oxen?”  
  
“Close,” Kaelyn grits out, trying to find her balance with Nate’s weight bearing down on her. “Steak sandwiches.”  
  
“That explains it.” At the wrong angle, at exactly the wrong moment, Valentine’s face flashes under one of the pale lights.  
  
“Whoa!” Nate rears back, eyes white-rimmed, hands scrabbling for purchase.  
  
“Look, I know the exposed coils and wires ain’t comforting—” Valentine begins, his voice pitched low to reassure.  
  
“Easy, Nate, easy!” She has to tighten her hold to keep him from pitching backwards. Pressing a hand to his jaw, she asks, “Nick’s here to help. Trust me?”  
  
Nate’s gaze flicks between Valentine and Kaelyn once, twice. He concedes, in a breathless rush of air, “Okay.”  
  
They wrangle Nate to his feet with more success this time. Despite Nate’s best efforts, his feet refuse to cooperate so they must all but carry him to the elevator. The sound of dragging feet carries on the catwalk like sand over a washer board, smooth and disturbing and strangely loud. When they reach the center of the elevator platform, unseen machinery groans and whirrs under their feet. Kaelyn braces her legs for that momentary lurch as the the platform pushes off, for that first rush of adrenaline and vertigo at odds with the lack of stimuli from her eyes. With no hand rail and unsteady balance, Nate wobbles between them and leans closer to Kaelyn, away from Valentine. If the synth notices, he doesn’t comment. Dogmeat sits at Kaelyn’s feet, peering around her knee to sniff at Nate.  
  
The elevator is always too slow. Despite the rush of air whistling in time with the rhythmic vibration of gears churning under their feet, it feels as if they aren’t moving at all. It’s too dark to make out the texture of the walls around them, so Kaelyn looks to the entrance above their heads and wills it to grow larger with every second, every minute, every lifetime that passes.  
  
Nate is quiet, hanging between Kaelyn and Valentine with his head lolling. For one terrible moment, she can’t hear him breathe. But then his foot drags on the textured metal floor and he hisses.  
  
“Stay with me, hon,” she whispers.  
  
He grazes her ribs with his dangling hand. “Not goin’ anywhere.”  
  
It might be exhaustion taking its toll, but Nate grows heavier with every moment, sags lower against her shoulder.  
  
“Come on,” Kaelyn mutters. “Come on, come on, come on.”  
  
And then the air becomes less stale, and the gear-shaped opening looms deep and blue against the dull black walls. A measly patch of sky studded with so many stars like grains of sand on a beach. And with that patch of open air looms hope, if only they reach it. If only Nate can keep his eyes open until they reach the surface.  
  
The elevator slows and they rise out of the ground, the platform grinding to a halt. The air is warmer but a breeze that makes Nate shiver. Tiny golden lights from Sanctuary and other nearby settlements flicker in the night, as sparse as the stars once were under the domineering night glow from Boston. But now the city is a dark and silent thing hulking in the distance, its tallest buildings barely distinguishable from the mountains that line the horizon.  
  
Nate’s shocked sigh is a puff of humid air on her neck.  
  
“Dogmeat, find people,” Kaelyn barks, and her dog rushes down to Sanctuary to raise an alert.  
  
Navigating the embankment is hell. Long eroded gouges have split the seams of dry, packed earth to expose roots and rocks, made all the more treacherous by loose gravel. Kaelyn’s foot slips and they almost go tumbling down the hill. Nate hitches a pained breath at the jolt. Valentine turns them so he can takes the lead, using his superior optics to plant his feet on the most even ground. They are forced to walk slowly, each moment counted by rustling branches in the breeze and by laboring breaths. Kaelyn kicks something that rattles, and her throat goes dry contemplating the skeleton under her boot.  
  
“General!” a voice calls from Sanctuary’s direction. “Are you out here?”  
  
They’re almost at the bottom of the slope now, and skid down the last few feet. Movement by the footbridge—a tiny bobbing light—catches Kaelyn’s eye.  
  
“Over here, Preston!” she shouts back.  
  
Dogmeat barks when he hears her voice. They meet Preston and Jun at the outer hedges. Preston looks their burden over in the lantern light. “How badly is he wounded?”  
  
“He’s been shot. I need to find a doctor.”  
  
“I know of one near the Abernathy farm. Not exactly close, but not far, either. You stay here and I’ll get her.”  
  
“I’ll come with,” Valentine volunteers. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one, especially at night.”  
  
But first he and Kaelyn gently deposit Nate on her bed, while Preston grabs his gear and Jun calls off the search. It’s only after Kaelyn rocks back on her heels and rolls her shoulders that she realizes Nate’s eyes are closed and his face is slack. He hasn’t made a noise since they reached Sanctuary.  
  
Kaelyn taps Nate’s cheek, her heart jumping in her throat. “Come on, honey, wake up for me. Wake up!”  
  
Nate is pale and wan and still, mouth slack in a white line. His skin is sallow, the hollows of his eyes sunken. His breaths even out, becoming shallower and shallower—  
  
Kaelyn continues smacking his cheek, with her palm this time. “Come on come on come on!”  
  
A flicker of movement behind Nate’s eyelids. Then his chest rises, sharper and deeper, and he groans low in his throat.  
  
Kaelyn grabs his hand and squeezes. “That’s it. Open your eyes, honey. Open your eyes.”  
  
Nate’s fingers close around hers and his throat bobs. Kaelyn taps his cheek, gentler now, until she coaxes his eyes open into narrow slits.  
  
Her breath leaves her in a long, shuddering stream, exorcising fear from the pit of her belly. “There you are,” she whispers, blinking rapidly, leaning over to press her forehead to their knotted fingers.  
  
Nate twitches his fingers, brushing against her hairline. “Here I ’m,” he slurs. “What’d I miss?”  
  
“Giving me a heart attack, for starters. Stay awake for me, honey. Help’s coming.”  
  
Kaelyn injects another stimpak, and dearly wishes she can give him some med-x to take the edge off what must be agony for him, but is stuck in the knowledge that it’s safer to let a doctor handle any dosages.  
  
It might be minutes that pass or it might be hours, marked only by Nate’s weak breathing and his weaker jokes. He looks little better, still too quiet and too pale, his weight sinking into the worn mattress, wincing whenever he so much as twitches. His eyes are glassy and restless, darting around the room but too clouded by pain to take anything in.  
  
Waiting is its own brand of hell, with Kaelyn afraid to move. Afraid to even blink lest Nate die when she isn’t looking. Hunched over, her curved spine protests leaning over for so long while a fierce ache has settled deep in her bowed shoulders. Her right thigh has long since gone numb from holding most of her weight on the edge of the bed. Her chest is crushed under the weight of all the things she should say, needs to say if Nate slips from her grasp forever, _again,_ but she is utterly voiceless.  
  
Red is seeping through the bandages when there’s a commotion outside. Dogmeat barks and people are calling out and then footsteps echo down the hall. Someone knocks on the door.  
  
Kaelyn looks up as Preston, dirty and weary and determined, leads a strange woman into the room. “Here’s your patient, doc.”

The first thing Dr Danielle Carlson does is ask for Nate’s blood type.  
  
“AB positive,” Kaelyn answers, rising to her feet as the doctor sails into the bedroom.  
  
“Lucky bastard.” She sets her kit on the nightstand starts rifling through her equipment. Sharp implements gleam in the lamplight.  
  
The second thing Dr Carlson does is banish Kaelyn from the bedroom. The door groans shut in her face, with Nate groaning behind it. What used to be white paint flecks the door, dappling the wood’s grain. Something has bored tiny gouges in a clump near the handle.  
  
The finality of the snick chills her blood.  
  
Kaelyn takes a breath, chokes on fear. She raises her palm to her brow.  
  
A steel hand stops her from smearing blood on her forehead. “Easy there. How about we get you cleaned up?”  
  
Kaelyn looks down at herself. Her hands twist, hovering over her stomach. Stained with hot bright red. Red on her sleeves and spatter over her torso. And then it is all she can smell; pungent copper clogging her nose. Rust in her throat. “Okay. Okay.”  
  
“That’s it. Deep breaths.” Valentine takes her by the elbow and guides her down the hall.  
  
Kaelyn can feel herself fraying at the edges, sliding away into the comfortable numbness.  
  
Codsworth hovers in the living room. “Was that truly sir? Oh, I am so relieved that you found him after all! Didn’t I tell you he was around here somewhere?” He looks her up and down, the shutters on his eye stalks pinching. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help, mum?”  
  
“Codsworth, could you warm some water?” Kaelyn asks. “Get the doctor anything she asks for. And if you could find some place for her to sleep when she’s finished?”  
  
“Right way, mum!” Codsworth is eager to have tasks assigned to him.  
  
Kaelyn makes it to the bathroom, lowers the toilet lid, and sits heavily. Stares into nothing until Codsworth’s reappearance startles her. Valentine crouches in front of her and sets the bowl of steaming water beside him. He’s scrounged an old dishrag from somewhere. First he finds the pip-boy’s latch at her wrist and puts it down to wash blood splatter from the screen later. Gently straightening one of her arms, his thumb settled in the center of her palm, he washes off the blood, stroke by stroke. At first the water moistens the red, mingles with it, until it drips hot and pink onto the chipped tiles. Kaelyn gasps at the hot slick feel, at the smell of copper caught in her throat, feeling Nate bleeding out beneath her again.  
  
Valentine is thorough, wiping down the dark patches on her leather jacket and soaking the red caught in her shirt until it has diffused into the fabric. By the time he finishes, dropping the cloth into the bowl with a splash, the water is lukewarm. Kaelyn stares down at her hands. Red still gathers under her fingernails in thin lines. Valentine then guides her to the couch and settles her down. Sheds his coat and drapes it over her like a blanket.  
  
Crouching down so they are at eye level, his yellow eyes are bright in the dark. “I’ll hold the fort for now. Get some rest, all right?”  
  
Kaelyn catches the brim of his fedora between her thumb and forefinger. “You’ll get me if anything happens? Anything at all?”  
  
“That’s a promise. Now get some shut-eye.”  
  
Valentine tucks the collar of his coat around her shoulders. Kaelyn squirms underneath it, tucking her knees up to her abdomen, settling more comfortably onto her side. Dogmeat lies down in front of the couch under her dangling hand. The fur on his shoulders is thick and coarse and warm. Dogmeat twists so he can nose her hand and licks her fingers once.  
  
Her eyes fall shut as she scratches light circles into Dogmeat’s fur.

—

Someone shakes Kaelyn’s shoulder. She peels her eyelids apart through sheer force of will. Blinks once, twice, to clear her vision. The shadows in the living room have shifted somehow, but are no lighter.  
  
Her head is lined with lead, and her tongue feels thick. Something presses down on her, something she should remember, something important, but somehow she knows that whatever hovers is bad.  
  
Like a needle to an overfilled balloon, it all comes tumbling back. The Institute. Shaun. _Nate_.  
  
“Doc’s cleaning up now,” Valentine says. “If you’ve got questions, now’s the time.”  
  
Kaelyn sits up, wincing at the protests of her stiff neck. Her heels graze Dogmeat’s back and she carefully arranges her feet around him. Codsworth hovers in the kitchen while Valentine leans against the kitchen island. Dr Carlson steps around the couch and perches on the armchair, hands folded in her lap. Despite being composed, there is a brittle quality to the way she holds her shoulders, brought on by too little sleep. Kaelyn can only wonder how Preston managed to rouse her from her bed and cart her back to Sanctuary as quickly as he did.  
  
There hadn’t been enough time before, but now Kaelyn can study the good doctor. Carlson’s dark hair is trimmed short and secured with bobby pins. How odd to see them being used for their intended function. Her hands are dripping water on her lap, but there is not a spot of blood on her. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, her gaze is alert.  
  
“Is he—?”  
  
The doctor cuts her off. “Breathing? Yes. Going to survive? If he’s still breathing come morning, his chances are better than they were. It was a clean exit wound, and the stippling will heal up. He lost a fair amount of blood, but your Minuteman friend donated some of his.”  
  
Kaelyn makes a mental note to thank Preston. Again.  
  
“You can see him now if you want,” Dr Carlson says. “He’s stable and sedated. Won’t wake for several hours. I’ll walk you through the meds he needs and when he needs them. We’ll need to watch for signs of infection. I’ll also show you what you can do to minimize the risk.”  
  
“Thank you, doctor. We’ve got a bed here for you, if you’d like to get some rest?”  
  
Dr Carlson puffs out a breath, just shy of a sigh. “That would be wonderful, thanks. Wake me if his condition changes. Otherwise I’ll be back in the morning to check how he’s doing.”  
  
Kaelyn tilts her head. “Codsworth, if you could show her to her bed?”  
  
“Of course, Miss Kaelyn. If you’ll follow me, Dr Carlson!”  
  
With the doctor taken care of, that leaves only one thing.  
  
Kaelyn finds she can’t move. Her hands twist like slimy eels in her lap, knotting up Valentine’s coat. The man himself crosses the room to sit beside her. Kaelyn shakes out his coat as best she can and hands it back. “Thanks.” Her voice is very soft. “Nick?”  
  
“What’s on your mind?”  
  
“Why did you follow me? How did you know where I was?”  
  
“You close up shop all of a sudden and vanish into the night? Of course I was going to make sure you weren’t about to do anything regrettable. Our good friend Dogmeat was happy to lend me a hand. Or rather, a nose.”  
  
“I owe you, Nick. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, Nate— “ Kaelyn lets out her breath in a noisy burst. “I— I should go. Someone has to watch over him.”  
  
“Whenever you’re ready.”  
  
“This must have been a long night for you too.” Kaelyn touches his arm. “You get some rest, Nick. Or at least take a break.”  
  
He surveys her from the top of her head down to her sock-clad feet—when had she taken off her boots?—and whatever he sees satisfies him. It isn’t enough, however, to completely ease the furrow in his brow. “Will do. Yell if you need me, partner.”  
  
Before Valentine leaves, he hauls her to her feet. Kaelyn sees him out, then pads down the hallway. The bedroom door is shut; again she notes the few remaining flecks of paint like lonely islands adrift on the swirling currents of the wood grain. Drawing in a breath, she grips the handle and slides the door open.  
  
A dimmed lantern on the nightstand casts a muted glow around the bed, barely able to reach the walls. It’s enough to distinguish silhouettes and little else. Her husband is a silent human-shaped lump draped in blankets. Behind her eyes, she can see the bullet embedded in the back of the cryo pod. The smell of blood fills her nose, hot and coppery and rotten.  
  
Kaelyn can only clutch the doorway, straining her eyes for any sign of his chest moving. Then his soft exhale breaks the night.  
  
Crawling onto the bed, she hunkers down to watch her husband. Even in the dim lighting, it’s clear he’s in dire condition. The bulk of the bandages warps the shape of his torso. His breathing is even but shallow. Stray drops of blood freckle the sheets around him. His face is pale and drawn and blank, and it’s nothing short of eerie to see him, the man infamous for being unable to stay still even in sleep, lying motionless. He once kicked her out of the bed in his sleep during their honeymoon.  
  
Kaelyn marvels. There’s no other word for it. She should lie down, get some sleep before reality comes crashing down around her, but she can only comb her eyes over Nate, comparing him to the memories she carries. Oh, she remembers the broad sweeps of his body, the color of his hair, the shape of his nose set in his face, but it is terrifying to discover just how much she has forgotten. The exact angle of his chin, the contours of his collarbones, how shadows pool in the dips of his shoulder muscles. The rash on his throat, flaring pink; he had shaved that morning for the speech, but refused to let anyone touch his hair.  
  
It hasn’t even been five months since she was thawed.  
  
His hair has mostly fallen out of that casual bun he was— _is_ fond of, and Kaelyn leans over to gently turn his head so she can ease the tie out of his hair. Underneath the sharp antiseptics and tang of blood is the gentler waft of his pine aftershave.  
  
That, of all things, is what breaks her.  
  
Kaelyn hunches hunches over, forearms on the mattress, gasping, shaking. Every stroke of terror she has been pushing aside to keep it together rears to the forefront of her mind. Now the remains of her control unravels like a coil of wire, starting in her chest where her heart races and radiating outward until her elbows can barely take her weight.  
  
Eventually, like the coastal tides receding after a storm, it passes. Not quite brave enough to touch him, she watches him breathe until her eyelids are lead and a gray fog of fatigue chokes the thoughts from her mind.  
  
When morning arrives so to does Dr Carlson, who wastes no time evicting Kaelyn so she can examine Nate. Codsworth corners Kaelyn and tempts her into breakfast with coffee. She drinks it because a tin of instant decaf is worth its weight in gold these days, even though the scalding liquid is tasteless in her mouth. The oats are sawdust on her tongue. She stares out the hole in the dining room wall that they still haven’t fixed, at the aqua deck chairs in the morning glow. There’s no use glancing behind her to the wall clock to check the time.  
  
“Miss Kaelyn, can you hear me?”  
  
Kaelyn glances up to Codsworth, whose voice holds the tone of someone who has been unsuccessfully trying to capture someone’s attention. The shutters in his optics are blown wide as he peers at her. “Sorry, Codsworth. What did you need?”  
  
“I asked whether I might be able to see Mister Nate.”  
  
“Codsworth, sweetie, of course you can. When the doctor’s finished we can visit him.”  
  
Dr Carlson emerges with neither good news nor bad to deliver. Kaelyn is not heartened but Codsworth takes off down the hall, and she follows at a more moderate pace. The curtains don’t have the thick backing to completely block out light, which creeps into the room, golden-edged and curious. Nate’s skin looks pale and sallow, throwing the freckles dusting his nose in sharp relief.  
  
“Ah.” Codsworth hovers beside her. “Don’t worry, mum. Mister Nate is certain to recover!” But his eye stalks are quivering on his chassis, his artificial pupils drawn to pinpricks.  
  
Kaelyn tries but can’t summon words of reassurance, to agree with his optimistic assessment. How long before the sedative is supposed to wear off?  
  
“Mum?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I am sorry for the loss of young Shaun, while Mister Nate has returned to us. But I... I hope I won’t lose you now. It seems like it’s you turn now, yes?”  
  
Through the fatigue layered like thin gray sweatshirts around her head, Kaelyn is touched. “Codsworth, you aren’t going to lose me.” Not to death, at least. In some ways, she’s already lost.  
  
“I assume you would like to spend some time alone with your better half? I’ll take care of the dishes.”  
  
Kaelyn’s head still feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool, only now her eyes are dry and glassy like marbles. She feels oddly weightless beneath her closed eyes, carried by flickers of golden light dancing behind her eyelids.  
  
Something brushes over her hair. She stiffens. Making a small noise of complaint, she cracks open one eye.  
  
It’s Nate’s hand, slow and uncoordinated.  
  
She sits up so quickly his hand falls away to his side. “Nate?” Her voice is a pathetic thing, cracked by hope.  
  
Nate twitches, his head turning in her direction. He groans low in his throat. One unfocused eye opens, then the other, but his fingers graze her knees. He shifts, assessing the damage, and a grimace peels back his dry lips.  
  
She sobs once, a dry, gasping thing that empties her lungs. Then she takes a deep breath and gets to work. Dr Carlson has left a canister of purified water on the nightstand. Kaelyn lifts his head to press the can to his lips and he sucks greedily at the water, gasping between mouthfuls in a way that makes Kaelyn worry he’s going to choke. He coughs on his second-to-last mouthful, spitting half it back into the can.  
  
“Easy, easy,” she soothes, pulling the canister away, but he whimpers and scrabbles to grab her wrist, so she lets him drain the last of the water.  
  
“Hon?”  
  
Kaelyn leans on one elbow and runs her thumb along his hairline. “I’m here, Nate. I’m here.”  
  
He groans again, eyes slipping closed. His breaths are short and shallow. “Hurts... like hell.”  
  
“Shh. I know. You’re so brave, big guy.”  
  
Nate’s face screws up. “Oh. Right. Was shot.” It is a miracle of medication that his voice holds nothing more than vague surprise.  
  
“You were, but you’re going to recover.” He’d better not leave her alone again, the bastard. When he settles somewhat under her soothing, she says, “Hold on a moment. I’m going to get the doctor so she can check on you.” Kaelyn crawls off the bed, sticks her head out the door and calls for Codsworth to get Dr Carlson.  
  
When she turns back to the bed, Nate is watching her, a little more alert. “C’mere,” he breathes.  
  
As she crawls across the mattress, his arm twitches in her direction again. When she’s in reach, Nate touches her hand. Kaelyn doesn’t quite remember how it’s supposed to go, even when his fingers curl around her palm. Here he is, seeking the comfort of her touch, and she can hardly believe he’s real.  
  
“Oh, Nate,” she whimpers, and now heat prickles behind her eyes. “So much has happened.” Her breath hitches, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. _Get it together. He needs you right now, not the other way around._  
  
“Hey, hey. Get down here.”  
  
Kaelyn eases down, searching for a safe place to curl up beside him, wiggling down to rest her forehead against his hip. Despite the dosage of med-x required to dull the pain of being shot in the torso, Nate is lucid enough to run his fingers through her hair, tugging at the too-short ends.  
  
Five months and the world has warped almost beyond recognition, and warped her along with it.  
  
“It’s okay. We’ll find Shaun. Promise.”  
  
That breaks the last of her resolve and she can only weep louder when Nate tries to soothe her. Dr Carlson throws her out of the room again and bars her from returning until she’s had proper rest.

—

Kaelyn sleeps until long lines of gold light band across the living room floor and dusky shadows creep out of their hiding places. By the time she reaches the front door, the muscles in her body have made all their complaints known.  
  
When her eyes adjust to the comparative brightness outside, she searches for Preston. He and Sturges are sitting in the car port, the latter fiddling with a radio to get better reception. The back panel is gone, exposing the thin metal guts of the radio, which he prods and tweaks like a surgeon. With an adjustment to the extra-long antenna and a final whack to the casing, he manages to clear up the white noise.  
  
_“Death has come for you, evil doer, and I am its Shroud!”_  
  
Kaelyn stops beside Preston’s perch on the workbench, and he gives her a smile in greeting. “Hey, Gen— hmm. Guess I can’t call you that anymore, huh?”  
  
“Guess I have to call you that now, huh?” Yesterday feels like so long ago, and it takes her a moment to recall their discussion by the creek. “Preston, I wanted to thank you for going out in the middle of the night to find a doctor and even giving blood.”  
  
He shrugs off her appreciation. “I’m here to help, and it’s nice to be the one doing the favors instead of receiving them.”  
  
Dogmeat bounds up to Kaelyn, dodges her attempt to pat him by circling around her, and then springs away. He stops at the edge of the car port and looks over his shoulder at her, whistling through his nostrils.  
  
With a chuckle, Preston says, “Looks like he wants to show you something.”  
  
Dogmeat leads her down the street to the dead oak that somehow stands proud despite being stripped naked of its leaves, its branches reaching to the sky as if there’s hope to be found in that wan blue expanse. Leaning against the girthy trunk is one Nick Valentine, a cigarette propped between his lips.  
  
He raises an eyebrow at Dogmeat, who is studiously digging a hole in the dirt, then plucks the cigarette from his mouth with two steel fingers. “Hope he didn’t get you out of bed.”  
  
“It’s all right. I was already up. Why? Were you gossiping with Dogmeat about me?”  
  
“Just a quick chat, nothing more.” The teasing smirk on his lips fades as he looks her over. “You look a bit more human.”  
  
Kaelyn leans beside him against the trunk. There’s plenty of space to go around. “Thanks. I needed a break, and the doctor’s watching over Nate. I’ve been meaning to ask. How are you doing with all this? The Institute, babysitting me, Nate, everything. It’s all happened so fast.”  
  
“Well, there were a lot of questions I was hoping the Institute could answer, but I’ve already made it this far without ’em. I think I’ll manage. As for the rest? I figured it’s high time something good went your way. It can’t be easy, what with the timing and all, but if your man makes you smile again, then I’m glad.”  
  
“I think that’s still a while off,” she admits, looking down, scuffing her boots on the ground.  
  
Valentine hums thoughtfully, his vocalizer imbuing it with a tinny burr. “What about you? Can’t seem to catch a break.”  
  
Another time, she might have laughed that short, hard-edged chuckle she learned from Glory. “Five months is long enough to get used to being a widow. Now Nate’s back, and that time doesn’t exist for him.”  
  
“He’ll get used to it. And he’s got you to help him adjust to this grand Commonwealth of ours.”  
  
A pit opens in the depth of her stomach, and Kaelyn wraps her arms around herself. “He was alive. This whole time, he was— and I didn’t—”  
  
Valentine nods as if she’s spoken a coherent sentence, which is rather generous of him. “Being re-frozen is probably what saved his life, you know. Small blessings and all that.”  
  
Kaelyn scoffs, more at herself than at him. “Torso shots aren’t immediately fatal. That’s the first thing I learned shooting people. Why didn’t I think?”  
  
“Hey, hey. No use beating yourself up over this. Everyone believed your man was dead, even Kellogg. Given his astronomical body count, it’s fair to assume he knew what he was doing when it came to killing. Take heart. It’s not over yet.”  
  
The words jog Kaelyn’s memory. Something about Mama Murphy. She takes a deep breath and tries to let Valentine’s comfort take root. Somewhere, deep down, she knows he’s right. If she had opened Nate’s pod immediately after she’d been released, he probably would have died then. But the bruised part of her that remembers every night she cried herself to sleep, every day she felt that hot ache behind her breastbone, every step she took alone.  
  
“You are endlessly optimistic, Valentine.” She squeezes his shoulder through his coat. “Thanks.”  
  
“Any time, partner.”  
  
Instead of returning home, Kaelyn takes a detour. Mama Murphy sits in her chair, staring out the window, as indolent as a cat in a puddle of sunlight. Kaelyn raps a knuckle on the door and those rheumy eyes tilt in her direction. “Mornin’, kid.”  
  
Kaelyn crosses the rug someone has dusted recently, as it doesn’t release small clouds at every step. “Did you know about this? About Nate?” It’s hard to keep the accusatory note out of her voice. If Mama Murphy had taken chems to fuel the Sight, she could have at least given a clearer description of the future.  
  
Mama Murphy’s smile starts at the corners of her mouth and works inward, lifting her chapped lips to flash her yellowed teeth. But it’s all colored by the pity in her clouded blue eyes. “Oh, kid, I sensed something lurking in your future, just outta reach. But I was worn out from what the Sight had already shown me. If I coulda given you more, I would’ve.”  
  
She scrubs her hands over her face. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m just… overreacting. It’s been a shock.”  
  
“I’ll bet, kid.” Mama Murphy settles herself lower in her chair. “I’m tired now. You’d better get back to your man, I think.”

—

Kaelyn drifts into her bedroom and stops dead. Nate is sitting up.  
  
He tries to untangle his legs from the sheets and get them over the side of the bed. He looks torn between passing out or retching, holding it together only from fear.  
  
“Where do you think you’re going?” Kaelyn’s voice is sharper than she intends, and Nate startles. He relaxes somewhat when he recognizes her, and by that point she’s halfway around the bed. “Easy, big guy. You need to lie down.”  
  
Nate refuses to budge under her hands, despite pain and lethargy carving into his face in equal measure. His eyes flick, restless, between her and their surroundings. One hand balls into a fist, then flexes. Sweat gleams on his forehead. “Hon? What’s— what’s going on? Where are we?”  
  
“Nate, honey, you’re injured.” Kaelyn softens her voice as she rests one knee on the bed near his hip. His shoulder is hot, so very hot, under her hands. “Just lie down and take a deep breath.”  
  
His eyes dart about again, and whatever impact she’s had is undone by the state of the room. His tongue darts out, wets his lips. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” His shoulders tremble, and he hunches further down. There’s the soldier’s training, refusing to relax until he confirms the area is clear.  
  
The mere thought of trying to explain makes her palms sweat and her heart pound. In her quest for her family, she’s left a trail of bodies across the Commonwealth, culminating in two bombs detonated within mere days of each other.  
  
Kaelyn pushes again, and Nate’s strength leaves him. Guiding him onto his back, she finds the washer and dabs at his forehead. Takes a moment to brush his hair out of his face. “I know this is confusing, hon, but you’re safe enough here.”  
  
 It almost feels like a lie, here in the Commonwealth, but she will do whatever she must to make make it true.  
  
“I need to know where we are.” His eyes fix on her, dark and intent. When had she stopped noticing the green of his irises, soft and deep like moss?  
  
“This our house, Nate,” she answers quietly. “Don’t you recognize it?”  
  
She will understand if the answer is no. An atomic bomb and two hundred years have stripped their bedroom of all but its walls, and even those have begun to crumble. His eyes bore a hole in her cheek, but her gaze remains studiously locked on the cloth in her hands.  
  
“Why do you look different?”  
  
This is it. The beginning of the end. Kaelyn searches for an answer that won’t be a loose thread tugged out of a ball of yarn, unraveling the whole damn thing too fast. “I’ve been out of the vault for almost five months.” She sits back on her feels, puffing out a sigh. “I’ll tell you everything. No matter how hard it is. I promise. But you need to take it slow. How about we get you out of that suit and cleaned up a bit?”  
  
Nate looks down and squirms, taking in his appearance for the first time. Dr Carlson cut through the torso and sleeve of the vault suit to gain access to the wound, but didn’t have the time or inclination to get him out of the suit entirely. “Okay.”  
  
Kaelyn finds the zipper at his throat and eases it down, smoothing her other hand down behind it. Thanks to the doctor’s modifications, she only has to worry about one sleeve before tugging the suit down over his hips. Underneath he is wearing nothing more than his briefs and bandages. She sticks her head out the door to ask Codsworth for warm water.  
  
He’s as prompt as ever. “Oh, sir! It’s good to see you awake! Here you are, mum. Is there anything else you require?”  
  
Nate pulls the sheets up to his waist while gaping at Codsworth. “Codsworth? You’re still here?”  
  
“Of course I’m still here! Surely you don’t think a little radiation could deter the pride of General Atomics International?”  
  
“That’s everything for now. Thank you, Codsworth.” Kaelyn shuts the door behind him.  
  
She checks the water on the inside of her wrist and, thanks to Codsworth’s robotic precision, the temperature is just right. she starts with his hands, wiping sweat from his palms and cleaning the blood smears off his wedding ring. She moves up his arms in long, sure strokes, and then sweeps the cloth with care around the edge of the bandages on his torso. Nate’s muscles unwind under her touch. When she’s scrubbed as best she can, she follows the cloth’s trail with a towel, and by this point he has a rather difficult time keeping his eyes open. His eyelashes flutter like butterflies trapped in a heavy breeze.  
  
But then he manages to hold his eyes open.  
  
The chain around her neck falls out of her shirt, and the dog tags dangle in the space between them. They are dulled from the wear of time, but the stamped details are as readable as ever, their embossed topography intimately familiar under her thumb.  
  
“Are these…?” Nate loops a finger through the chain and rests the tags in his palm.  
  
Wordlessly, Kaelyn sits back on her knees and reaches for the clasp at her nape. She holds the chain out to him.  
  
He accepts, then hits the limitations of his current mobility when he tries to put them on. “Where did you find these?”  
  
Kaelyn has him lean forward enough so she can get the chain around his neck without strangling him. “Codsworth was able to keep a few things safe.”  
  
“How did he manage that? That’s very… sentimental of him.”  
  
“I know.” After seeing how the Institute treated their synths, the idea of owning something as complex as Codsworth puts a bad taste in Kaelyn’s mouth. But he won’t hear of any payment for his services like a human butler would receive. “Robots evolving on their own, developing a personality and a sense of family? The thought should scare me. But he’s still Codsworth. Just… more human, in a way.”  
  
Nate runs a hand over his dog tags once their settled around his neck, greeting old friends. Kaelyn’s collar feels naked by comparison, so accustomed has she become to their presence, but it’s only right to return them.  
  
“Why did you have them?”  
  
Kaelyn blinks and looks down to her hands folded over her stomach. A trained habit to keep nervous hands still, one that had been occasionally necessary in the court room. “I wanted something to... to remember you by.”  
  
Nate blinks. It’s clear he doesn’t understand. “What happened in the vault?”  
  
“Vault-Tec lied to us, Nate.” Her voice tightens into a hiss, and she’s surprised by the strength of the old indignation and betrayal burning in her gut. “They were never going to give us a new home. They were testing the long-term effects of cryogenic stasis. On unaware human subjects.”  
  
Nate’s brow furrows as he processes that information. “Unaware… oh.” There’s a moment of blank horror before his mind kicks into overdrive. “What about our neighbors? Are they safe? Did they get out too?”  
  
Now she just feels sick. “The Institute shut down life support to all other pods except mine. And yours, clearly.”  
  
He can only blink, his thoughts a million miles away. Then: “The Institute? They’re the ones who kidnapped Shaun?”  
  
“That’s right.” She runs her hand over edge of his bandages. Recalls the sounds of Kellogg’s revolver. Nate catches her hand, and their eyes meet. She swallows around a sudden lump in her throat. “I was certain you were dead. For five months, I thought you were—”  
  
“He aimed high. To reduce the risk of hitting Shaun.” Tension knots his neck and shoulders, pulling tendons taut like piano strings. His exhale rattles, too loud in the quiet bedroom. “If I ever get my hands on that bastard he’d better watch out—”  
  
“You’d be too late,” Kaelyn says flatly. Fixes her eyes on a point on the wall. “I already killed him.”  
  
Silence.  
  
She doesn’t dare look sideways. Doesn’t dare decipher his expression. “What was I supposed to do? What would you have done? Weren’t you the one just making vengeful threats against Kellogg?”  
  
Still Nate says nothing. His good hand creeps up to graze her jaw, then he hooks two fingers around her chin to force her to look down at him. Incredulity scrawls across his face. _“You_ killed him? You _killed_ him?”  
  
Kaelyn drops her eyes and nods once. What does he think of her now? Knowing she’s sunk so far below what had once been unquestioned morality? Even now, under the shame conjured by confessing to her husband, the old hatred and lust for vengeance worm through her stomach like ice-cold snakes seeking heat to constrict. Worse is the satisfaction that Kellogg had paid in blood for destroying her family, and that she’d been the one to collect the debt.  
  
“How did you— I never thought you would be able to— that is, I’m, uh, little surprised, is all.” But no matter the forced levity, he looks shaken.  
  
_I never thought you would be able to kill someone,_ is how that sentence is supposed to finish.  
  
Kaelyn jerks her head free and retreats, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging them tight. “Don’t look at me like that.”  
  
“Did I say I was angry?”  
  
That cuts her short. “No.”  
  
Nate quirks an eyebrow up at her, too somber for his usual teasing expression. They sit in silence, him watching her and she watching anything but him. The space between them on the mattress is a chasm filled with blood, ice and the cool hiss of a cryogenic array.  
  
All of a sudden, Nate grabs her wrist. “How long was I frozen for? How long?”  
  
“Nate, honey. Do you really want to go into it now?” She brushes her fingers over his hairline, hoping fatigue will win out over fear.  
  
No such luck. He’s far too determined for his own good. “Give me the sitrep. All of it.”  
  
Kaelyn bows her head, her fingers creeping over his own. “It’s 2288. I was released last year. Two hundred and ten years exactly, down to the day.” Perhaps Shaun wanted to control the variables on his little experiment, because she still can’t see any reason for the timing besides a twisted sense of poetics.  
  
“No. No, that’s not possible. I wasn’t out for that long... not _two hundred years_...” Nate shakes his head, baffled, his face scrunched up in a way that might be comical in any other situation.  
  
“I’m sorry, honey.” She traces circles on the back of his hand. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”  
  
“We need to find Shaun.” He draws in a deep breath, and doesn’t notice Kaelyn’s hands tighten convulsively. “Why did they take him? It doesn’t make sense. There’s just no reason why anyone would take Shaun. He’s— he’s only a baby.”  
  
_Oh, Nate._  
  
Kaelyn gets off the bed to rummage through the dresser for clothes that might fit him. She can’t let him see her face now.  
  
“Honey?”  
  
She makes a noncommittal noise that might count as agreement.  
  
There’s a moment of incredulous silence behind her, then Nate lets out a noisy breath. “Why aren’t you more concerned about this, Kaelyn? Our son is out there. Who knows what those people are doing to him!”  
  
She has to clutch the edge of the dresser, the wood biting into her palms while her fingertips ache from the pressure. She has to check that there isn’t any grave dirt under her nails. “He’s not, Nate, he’s really not.”  
  
“What do you mean he’s not out there?” he snaps. When her shoulders slump, he says, “Honey. Come here.”  
  
His voice is now soft and _commanding_ and she is so afraid of the pain she’s about to inflict, but finds she cannot disobey.  
  
Kaelyn slips onto the edge of the bed, and he tugs her closer. Heat stings her eyes, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. She meets his eyes, finally. “Nate, he’s gone.”  
  
Maybe it’s her bereft tone, or her bleak expression, but something about her response arrests him. His eyes dart over her face, quick, frantic, searching for even the slightest hint of uncertainty. “No. No, no, no. You’re wrong. Shaun’s still out there. You’re _wrong.”_  
  
“The Institute took Shaun sixty years ago.” She pushes past the blank shock, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the awful realization taking root in his eyes, and says, “Shaun lived, and he died. Cancer. All their marvels in technology, all the sacrifices they made in the name of scientific progress, and they couldn’t cure him. I found Shaun, and it wasn’t enough.”  
  
There is so much more, all the regret and love and disappointment rising behind her breastbone like an inky black tidal wave, but she chokes it down.  
  
Nate’s eyes are overbright and anguished, blinking rapidly. His breath hitches once, twice. “No...”  
  
“I’m sorry, hon. I’m so sorry.”  
  
Between the space of a heartbeat, he seems to have aged ten years.  
  
Nate’s arms wrap around her waist and he buries his head in her hip like a drowning man clutching a floating plank, gasping to keep his head above the sea. One of her hands cards through his hair. They tremble against each other like two leaves clinging to a lonely branch in a thunderstorm.  
  
Her own tears drip down her chin while a hot wetness seeps into her shirt at her hip under Nate’s head. She curls over him and they cry together for every hope and dream, every wish for the future, every plan that they once took for granted. The trike Shaun will never ride, the books they will never teach him to read, the afternoons after school that will never happen.  
  
When they finally quieten, the night feels dead.

—

Over the next few days, Kaelyn fears telling Nate so soon was a mistake as he withdraws, lethargic from more than the med-x. When Dr Carlson tells him it’s time to leave the bed, his first reaction is to roll over and close his eyes.  
  
But when Kaelyn wakes the next morning, it’s to Nate wobbling as he tries to stand on his own. Their eyes meet, and the grim resolve in his eyes is a welcome sight.  
  
Satisfied he’s out of the woods, Dr Carlson takes her hefty payment and makes her preparations to return home.  
  
Codsworth practically hums as he works the stove, making breakfast. Kaelyn is too immersed in her morning coffee-–black, double shot instant—to rouse irritation. From the shadows under Nate’s eyes and the ginger way he holds himself, he is even less rested than her. They sit on stools at the island, each staring into different spaces of empty air.  
  
For something disturbingly mundane, Nate looks so very vulnerable. As if he expects this last thread of normalcy to be torn at any moment. With his hands warming around his mug, leaning over on his elbows to inhale the aroma of stale coffee, she can almost pretend it is just another morning before the war.  
  
Almost.  
  
“I want to see him.”  
  
A cruel demand. But one she doesn’t have the heart to refuse.  
  
Despite Dr Carlson’s disapproving frown, she doses Nate on med-x. Kaelyn suspects it will onnly be enough for a short trip, forcing them to return quickly when the pain becomes too much.  
  
They dress in silence. Nate must sit on the bed and inch a second-hand pair of trousers up his legs while trying to breathe through the pain in his chest. Kaelyn is not only dressed but armed with a concealed gun by the time he’s ready to venture into the territory of shirts. Still, she can’t disapprove of him wanting to do this when she would probably be insisting on it too, so she holds her tongue when Nate, jaw clenched, wipes the sweat off his forehead.  
  
She kneels down to lace his boots and he rests a hand on her shoulder, only to pull away at her surpised flinch. “Sorry.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
He offers his hand to pull her up, tentative this time, and she accepts.  
  
Down the valley, over the footbridge, like they had before the end of the world. They diverge from the past on the other side of the creek, snaking through the marked trail that winds up the ridge. Despite the risk, Kaelyn holds Nate’s hand, lacing their fingers together. His hand is like her own: cool and clammy.  
  
Today a mass of light clouds scatter over the dull blue sky. Spindly maple branches waver overhead, casting a narrow network of shadowed lines over the ground like the veins of some monstrous creature whose gray hide they walk upon. No matter the shade, sweat soon rolls down Kaelyn’s neck and beads above Nate’s lip. Grass crunches under their boots, a choppy sound punctuated by loose stones tumbling down the hill.  
  
Nate swivels his head back and forth, comparing the forest of slender gray trunks, dead and leafless as if it were a proper winter and not a radioactive pseudo-summer, to the crisp colorful images in his memory. He says nothing, too exhausted to be truly aghast. His short breaths punch through the air, and every once in a while he winces, then waves off her concern. But he refuses when she suggests a break, his eyes sweeping the top of the ridge.  
  
It’s the same boneheaded determination that’s dragged her all around the Commonwealth these past months, so she doesn’t protest. She does, however, check that the stimpak she brought is safely in reach on her belt. Just in case.  
  
Finally—too quickly—they reach the top. Kaelyn reclaims the lead, wishing with all her might to be anywhere but here. Nate’s breath catches when he sees the displacement of dirt, large enough for an adult, far too large for a baby. The marker Codsworth cut from a log. Nate’s hand is so tight around her wrist her fingertips pound in time with her heartbeat, but all she can do is keep walking until they reach the foot of the grave.  
  
Nate drops to his knees like a stone.  
  
Kaelyn can only rest her hands on his shoulders and listen to him cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I’m the only person who didn’t turn Sanctuary into a bustling town.


	3. Chapter 3

_Scritch._  
  
Between the space of one heartbeat and the next, Kaelyn wakes.  
  
_Scritch. Scritch-ch-scritch._  
  
Rolling onto her back, she sighs then untangles herself from her blankets and her husband. Nate stirs beside her, rolling onto his back, but settles again under her touch. Grabbing a plaid shirt, she throws it over her bra as she pads up the hallway. Codsworth floats in the laundry in power conservation mode, and Kaelyn takes a moment to gently close the door.  
  
_Scritch. Scritch-ch-scritch-ch-ch._  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” she whispers, and pulls open the front door.  
  
Deacon smirks at her. “Miss me?”  
  
They are beyond modesty, she and Deacon. Too many days on the road and too little privacy amongst the slender gray boughs of sickly trees. Even with those sunglasses he never takes off, not even at night, Kaelyn is confident of where his gaze rests.  
  
She should make a returning wise crack. Her mouth ignores the memo. “What are you doing here, Deacon?”  
  
He shoulders his way into the living room and lights the lantern on the coffee table. Then he notices a bottle of bourbon sitting atop the alcohol cabinet and adjusts his direction. “That’s a yes. It’s all right, there aren’t many people in the ’Wealth who can resist my rugged charms. There’s a support group and everything.” Searching for glasses gives him an excuse to put the kitchen island between them. If she wants to pursue him, it’ll be an ugly chase. “Heard you’re out. You couldn’t even say goodbye to little old me?”  
  
Kaelyn wraps her arms around herself. “I’m sorry, Deacon. I just… couldn’t stay.”  
  
“Hey, if anyone deserves a lifetime worth of vacations, it’s you.” Deacon rests his hands on the counter and leans forward, lamplight reflecting off his glasses. “Look, I didn’t just come here to piss you off. I get that you need a break. But this… this is important.”  
  
“Whatever it is, Deacon, I can’t help you.”  
  
The look he gives her is tainted by enough pity that the back of her neck prickles. “I wish that was the case. Really. So in the Institute, while we’re grabbing people left and right to evac, there’s this one kid. Keeps asking for his mom. Hasn’t stopped since we got him settled at one of the safehouses. Brown hair, cute little nose, sweet attitude.” A muscle in his neck flexes when he swallows. “He—has your eyes, Whisper. And if that wasn’t the last nail in the coffin, he says his name is Shaun.”  
  
There is only the pound of blood in her ears. Distantly, she’s aware of how the ambient light from the kitchen door frames Deacon, of how the air in the room is utterly still. “Shaun had a synth child of himself made.” Her voice is very soft. Afraid to pierce the night and make all this real. “I don’t know why. No one knows why. Bait, maybe.”  
  
Now his voice is flippant, too flippant, as he takes the opportunity for sarcasm. “It’s the kind of thing the Institute would think is a good idea. Every morning, they woke up and asked ‘how can we screw with science today?’”  
  
“That’s the thing, Deacon. The boy disturbed the technicians who worked on him. Shaun wanted him as life-like as possible. But the boy, he— he never believed I was his mother.”  
  
“Yeah, well, _life-like_ ’s a good word for him. The kid doesn’t even know he’s a synth. He had this on him.” Deacon produces a holotape from somewhere on his person, whirling it between his fingers with a deftness that is borderline bragging. “Said it was for his mom, from Father.”  
  
And with that, he tosses it in her direction.  
  
Kaelyn twitches when the holotape bounces on the counter top, skidding to a halt in front of her, but doesn’t pick it up. “Did you listen to it?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Liar,” she accuses without heat.  
  
Deacon only affects a helpless shrug that is a touch too stiff.  
  
Kaelyn heaves a sigh, deflating. She stares at the counter. “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
An incredulous silence on his end. He shifts. “Isn’t it obvious?”  
  
She won’t look up at him. Her voice drops with determination. “You take that boy and find him a loving family that’ll take him in.”  
  
His mouth tightens, not quite a frown. “He’s, uh, pretty anxious to get to you. This makes my skin crawl, but what about sending him to Amari?”  
  
_“No,”_ she answers immediately. “That’s only supposed to be done with a synth’s consent. I can’t make that decision for him. Tell him I’m dead, if it makes things easier.”  
  
Deacon is still motionless, as if he’s been dropped into a room with an irritable deathclaw. “You’re sure you, ah, don’t want to take some time to think about it?”  
  
Kaelyn closes her eyes. Feels the draft through the hole in the dining room wall. She swallows. “My son is _dead,_ Deacon. Nothing will bring him back. I can’t just replace him with a copy!” She reigns her voice in, listens for any sound of movement from the bedroom. When she speaks next, her voice is low and firm. Resolved. “Get that boy out of the Commonwealth. That’s what the Railroad does, right? Isn’t smuggling synths supposed to your day job?”  
  
“As well as my night job,” Deacon retorts. He drums his fingers against the bottle of bourbon. “A quick drink and then I’ll go.” Without waiting for an answer, he grabs two glasses and pours. Slides one down the counter to Kaelyn in a move that can be described as either daring or stupid.  
  
“To our astoundingly awesome victory,” Deacon says. “Only sixty years in the making.”  
  
Kaelyn raises her glass. “To Glory. And to everyone else we lost.”  
  
A rueful smile twists his mouth. “I’ll drink to that.”  
  
They touch their glasses with a muted clink, and Kaelyn relishes the burn when she brings her glass to her lips. The bourbon is potent, to say the least, and the fumes make her eyes water; she barely swallows the cough in her throat. Deacon says nothing more and neither does she, but they don’t have to. There’s an honesty in their silent camaraderie.  
  
His attention flits over her shoulder. “We’ve got company.”  
  
Kaelyn half-turns. Nate pads down the hallway, bare-chested, scrubbing at his face with one hand. His voice is thick with sleep. “Honey?”  
  
Deacon only raises an eyebrow. With those ridiculous sunglasses it’s impossible to be sure, but it’s likely his gaze is moving between Kaelyn and the half-naked man wandering out of her bedroom.  
  
Kaelyn’s exhale is somewhere between a disbelieving scoff and a laugh. “Deacon, you aren’t going to believe this.” She rests a hand on Nate’s bare shoulder when he stops beside her, as if it has always belonged there. Deacon’s eyes are already narrowed behind his glasses, from the way the lines on his face have tightened. “Nate, this is Deacon. Deacon, this is Nate. My husband.”  
  
It’s one of those rare moments where Deacon is taken completely off-guard. Kaelyn wishes for a camera to show Dez proof. He recovers quickly, however. “So this is payback for all the times I tried to trick you? Or… not. Hi, Kaelyn’s better half. I haven’t been following your wife across the Commonwealth, and have most definitely not led her into any kind of trouble whatsoever. No, sir. None.”  
  
Nate offers a hand, falling back on manners in his uncertainty. “Uh... nice to meet you?”  
  
“So civilized.” Deacon shakes the proffered hand, smirking, but out of the corner of his glasses, his worried eyes are on Kaelyn. “Don’t find much of that in the ’Wealth. So, uh, husband, huh? Thought you were dead?” That last question is directed more towards her.  
  
“Almost but not quite,” Nate answers. “Hurts like hell, though. And it’s itchy under the bandages.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s the worst part,” Deacon agrees. “Bandages are a bitch like that. Anyway, I’ve got to get moving, but nice to see you, uh, alive.” In typical Deacon fashion, he makes a hasty exit the moment he senses the brewing storm and leaves Kaelyn holding the bag. He taps her shoulder as he passes. “If you change your mind about anything, you know where to find me.”  
  
And then Deacon is gone. Nate drops down onto one of the kitchen stools, slouching despite the line of tension threading through his shoulders. “Who was that?”  
  
“Deacon. He’s a liar. As well as a good friend.”  
  
He only nods, too quiet, too thoughtful. His eyes flick to her. “You told everyone I was dead, didn’t you?”  
  
Kaelyn sighs. “I thought you were. I really did.”  
  
He only nods again, drumming his fingers on the counter top. “That was all very… what’s the word? Furtive. Yeah, that works. That was all very furtive.”  
  
Her eyes drag to the holotape. Such a small, innocuous thing. But her gut is already twisting with nausea. Kaelyn wets her lips, playing for time to consider her response. “He’s a part of the Railroad. We— _they_ are secretive that way. Despite his attitude, Deacon more so than most.”  
  
Nate cocks an eyebrow. “‘We’?”  
  
“The Railroad is dedicated to freeing synths and opposing the Institute. I went to them for help since they were the only ones fighting the Institute, but after it was all over I— I couldn’t stay.”  
  
“What is a synth, exactly? Isn’t that just another word for robot?” This time he doesn’t even pretend at mere curiosity; his questions arrow, dark and knowing, straight at her heart.  
  
Kaelyn drops onto the other stool, suddenly tired. She keeps her gaze on the counter top. “How much did you hear?”  
  
“Enough. What’s this about that boy you were talking about? Is it— is it really Shaun? Does this Railroad have him?” His voice lilts upward with hope.  
  
Kaelyn hates to crush it. “No. The Institute made synths. There are three generations of them. First and second gens are purely mechanical. You’ve seen Nick; he’s a prototype, somewhere in between second and third gen. Third gen synths— they—” She chokes.  
  
Nate reaches out and she pulls her hands away; he drops his arm onto the counter, stretched in silent entreaty. “Tell me.” His voice holds a quiet note of command.  
  
“That’s why they took Shaun, you know,” she answers softly. “The Institute wanted their newest synths to be as human-like as possible, and for that they needed pure human DNA. He was the... ideal subject. And if anything happened to him, they had his parents as backup subjects.”  
  
Nate closes his hand into a fist, skin pulled taut over his knuckles, tendons bulging. “So that synth is— it’s just a robot?”  
  
“Third gens are indistinguishable from humans,” she continues, terrible and quiet, “and the Institute kept them as slaves. It was wrong.” Kaelyn buries her head in her hands, presses her fingers against her temples, runs her nails over her scalp. “He’s a real boy, but he is not our son.”  
  
Nate covers his face with his hands, and Kaelyn hears a muffled sniffle. But she is trapped in the cage of her own grief to be able offer any comfort.  
  
“Why?”  
  
He could be asking about any number of things, but she suspects she knows which one. “I don’t know.” Her eyes fall on the holotape again. From Father. From Shaun.  
  
In a sudden motion, Kaelyn jumps off the stool and bolts to their bedroom. Her pip-boy is on the bedside table. Scooping it up, she closes the latch around her wrist as she returns to her seat. Her fingers tremble as she reaches for the holotape. Nate watches, a silent and hunched golem.  
  
She can only press her fingers to her mouth, like silencing stitches down her lips, and listen.  
  
_“If you are hearing this, then whatever conflicts you and I have endured are over.”_  
  
Kaelyn’s eyes widen. Nate is already reaching for her shoulders that have bunched around her ears. “That’s him,” she whispers through her fingers. “That’s Shaun.”  
  
She can see him behind her eyes, attaching face to voice: the flash of his eyes lit by scientific genius and softened by something nameless, the deep hazel of his irises broken by thick slivers of green; the faded bronze of his skin, laden with fine wrinkles; the way his eyebrows furrowed like silvery caterpillars when she advocated on behalf of synths, the ‘children’ he was so quick to dismiss; the shape of his face, so similar to his father’s it sent a stab through her heart.  
  
Nate’s eyes fix on the pip-boy.  
  
_“I have no reason to believe you’ll honor the request I’m about to make, but I feel compelled to try anyway. This synth, this... boy. He deserves more. He has been re-programmed to believe he is your son. It is my hope that you will take him with you. I would ask only that you give him a chance. A chance to be a part of whatever future awaits the Commonwealth.”_  
  
She folds over and sinks under the weight of her grief.

—

Kaelyn wakes alone in an empty bed. Floundering in the dark, she scans the room for threats, for memories, and stretches to find a weapon.  
  
But dammit, she can still smell Nate on the sheets—rumpled by Dogmeat, no doubt—and it’s like she’s lost him all over again.  
  
It was a dream. He’s gone, he’s gone, he can’t be gone—  
  
Unable to remain in bed, surrounded by the memories, she lurches to her feet and paces down the hall.  
  
Movement in the kitchen; a silhouette in the predawn. “Honey?”  
  
She freezes, like a cat, every muscle going still at once. “Nate? Is that you?”  
  
He turns to face her, and his figure resolves into a familiar shape. Nate says, “Yeah. It’s me.”  
  
Choking back a sob, she flops onto the stool beside him and buries her head in her hands. The bandages around his torso warn her not to hug him.  
  
He’s alive. It wasn’t a dream. He’s _alive_.  
  
The old clawing grief takes her breath away, fierce in its unexpected strength, and for a moment she’s back in some no-name hovel, curled on whatever passed for a bed. Eyes hot and swollen, gaping hole in her lungs heavy, blanket pressed over her mouth—a familiar ritual.  
  
“I missed you.” Her voice wavers, drops into a whimper.  
  
Nate wraps an arm around her. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone,” he whispers into her ear. A rough burr edges into his voice. “I never wanted that.”  
  
Kaelyn squeezes his arm. “I know.” That flicker of resentment, black and oily, uncurls in the pit of her belly, but it is safely coiled in Kellogg’s direction. Maybe at a few of her lowest points, she’d resented Nate for dying—him, the war veteran—and leaving her woefully unequipped to struggle alone. “It was never your fault.”  
  
Nate slides his palm against hers, entwines their fingers. “It was never yours, either.”  
  
“I could have gotten you out earlier, if I just stopped to think—”  
  
“Honey,” he says with the utmost patience, “what did I just say?”  
  
She closes her eyes. Sighs. “Sorry. I just—” _wish you had been there when I needed you._  
  
They say nothing for a long time, while her pulse calms and her breaths slow and the voice insisting this is just a dream retreats. Nate catches her hand, fingers hook around her palm. His thumb brushes over her wedding ring. “Did you ever take it off?”  
  
Kaelyn pauses, wets her lips with a measured stroke of her tongue. But when she speaks, her voice can barely raise above a whisper. “I wasn’t ready to. And now it’s definitely staying on.”  
  
Nate’s hand rests, large and warm, on her back, and his sigh is one of relief.  
  
Scrubbing her hands over her face, she looks up and notices her pip-boy on the kitchen counter. Dark circles sit under Nate’s swollen eyes.  
  
Softly, she asks, “Convinced yet?”  
  
Nate grunts, sinks lower in his chair. He’s waiting for recognition—for the moment where it clicks and his heart says _yes, this is Shaun_.  
  
There’s only an old man’s tired rasp: _“If you are hearing this, then whatever conflicts you and I have endured are over...”_  
  
After another loop of the tape, she coaxes him back to bed with the promise of another stimpak. The pain that pulls his shoulders down isn’t just the emotional variety. He winces as she helps him to his feet, and they shuffle back to bed.  
  
She doesn’t remember lying down, or when the sun begins to peek around the curtains. She does remember Deacon’s late night visit, and still feels bereft, only now better rested.  
  
Something brushes over her skin, rough and warm and gentle. She shifts, feeling the inexorable pull towards wakefulness, and eventually her eyes open. Those fingers trace over the bulk of her deltoid again.  
  
“These are new,” Nate murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. Kaelyn turns her head just enough to see him watching her. Something about his expression is so tender she feels the urge to duck under the blankets and hide. His fingers glide across her collarbone, over the swell of her breast, to her ribs. The skin there is peppered with tiny marks and burns courtesy of a Molotov cocktail. “So are these.”  
  
His hand trails lower down her stomach, over a shallow gash, dodging the mottled bruises near her left hip. Her muscles tense; her instincts are so trained to expect pain that gentleness is a foreign language and intimacy a half-forgotten dream.  
  
Kaelyn wonders what he thinks of her now, of the violence now irrevocably etched into her skin.  
  
And then Nate leans over to press his lips against the nearest scar on her stomach. She shivers at the feel of his mouth, her heart thrumming in her chest. He can’t kiss every scar spattered across her ribs, so he makes do with peppering her side with tiny kisses. He pulls away the edges of her shirt, searching her body with such care for more changes, extra gentle over the lingering bruises from the Institute rebellion. Her belly and thighs are still thick with the weight she gained during pregnancy, but underneath the muscles are firm. Along the way he finds a knob where her rib broke and healed shoddily, claw marks from a feral ghoul, the spot where a bullet grazed the inside of her arm.  
  
Kaelyn runs a hand through his hair and tries to keep breathing. Shivers again as his tongue darts out to trace a scar just below her collarbone. She doesn’t even remember what caused that one. Nate avoids the bruises that mottle her chest with a deftness that can only speak of first-hand experience.  
  
“Are there more?” he murmurs against her shoulder, his warm breath spilling over her skin.  
  
She twists her fingers in his hair. “You’ll have to find them.”  
  
So he does.  
  
Nate urges her to roll so her back is to him, edging down the collar of her shirt. There he finds an old burn from that gang of Forged and their unholy love of flamethrowers. That he kisses in three places, and then presses his mouth to her nape for good measure. From there he discovers the thin line over her kidney where a scavver once tried to shiv her for her pip-boy.  Once her shirt is entirely gone, he runs his hand down her arms, one at a time. He traces the pad of one finger over an old burn on her palm and its fellows along the inside bend of her fingers, the motion a question mark.  
  
“I, uh, grabbed a gun by the barrel after it fired.”  
  
“Oh, honey.” He brings her palm to his lips.  
  
Through Nate’s ministrations, his only reaction is the occasional wince at a particularly nasty scar, but the gesture is laden with sympathy rather than disgust. Kaelyn feels secure enough to curl against his side and ask, “What do you think?”  
  
His answer almost brings her to tears. “I think you’ve been through a lot. And you survived it all. Also, I think that I love you.”  
  
“Only think?” she returns, but her voice is too hoarse for casual teasing.  
  
Nate taps a finger against his chin with a thoughtful expression, then grins at her indignant noise. He ducks under her jaw to blow a raspberry on her neck. “Maybe it’s more than think. We can both attract pretty women and men with our battle scars now, huh?”  
  
“That women like scars has never been in question. The real mystery is whether men like scars.” It isn’t the cause of her anxiety, so she can tease freely about it.  
  
“You’d be surprised. And I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t.” He doesn’t need to point out the scars that mark his body from his years in service, but he does flick his fingers in the direction of the bandages. “Wait until this comes off, honey, and I’ve got you beat.”  
  
“You keep telling yourself that, big guy.” The curtains are edged with burning gold light that becomes harder to ignore with every minute. It is not the pale shining glow of morning but the fierce beat of a sun sprawled over the zenith of the sky. She can only put off getting up for so long. “How would you like to brave the outside world today?”  
  
Nate’s sigh is one of relief. “Where do I sign up?”  
  
The second time they step out the front door, Nate stops dead. His head turns, gaze flitting from house to house, taking in the cracked road and rusted decay. It’s a punch to Kaelyn’s gut watching his face crumple when he notices the state of the suburb for the first time. He’d been too preoccupied to take it in when he’d last ventured outside.  
  
Nate’s eyes are glued to Rosa’s car port. More specifically, the T-51 power armor hanging in its cradle. Its plates are riddled with bullet impacts and mottled with carbon scoring, and the entire torso has been removed while Sturges swears at the wiring underneath.  
  
Nate whistles. “That’s some serious protection.”  
  
Sturges glances up at them and offers Nate a welcoming smile. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Or, well, she _was.”_ He throws a significant look in Kaelyn’s direction.  
  
She holds up her hands in surrender. “That power armor is the only reason _I’m_ still a beauty. So I’ll take it.”  
  
Nate halts. “That’s _your_ armor?”  
  
She nods once.  
  
“When did you learn how to work a suit of power armor?”  
  
Kaelyn gives an awkward shrug. “Necessity is a wonderful teacher.”  
  
Nate watches her for another beat, then turns his attention to the hanging armature. Stopping just shy of Sturges’ tools, he inspects the damaged frame with an experienced eye. “Never thought I’d see one of these just lying around.”  
  
Sturges replies in his slow drawl, “Better us than raiders.”  
  
In the Quincy massacre, the Gunners’ leaders had all gotten their hands on power armor. Kaelyn remembers them, and remembers how she killed them. But if Sturges is disturbed at the reminder, he doesn’t show it.  
  
Nate leans oh-so-casually against one of the workbenches, watching Sturges with interest to the point of avoiding looking at anything else. “Where’d you learn to repair power armor?” There’s something in his eyes. Eagerness to the point of desperation.  
  
Kaelyn touches Nate’s arm, and it grounds him somewhat. He take a moment to shoot her a reassuring smile that is too bright and tight before tuning back to Sturges’ answer.  
  
“If something’s broken, I fix it.” Sturges trades an adjustable wrench for a screwdriver and wrestles with a mangled circuit board.  
  
She leaves the men to it and takes the opportunity to square away one particular task that requires some discretion. The conversation is unavoidable, and better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. Especially if her morning canoodling with Nate is any indication. Kaelyn has the choice of asking Marcy or Mama Murphy, and decides on the latter.  
  
Naturally, Preston is over at Mama Murphy’s house to make sure she’s had enough to eat. After a few minutes of idle chat, Preston takes his leave and Kaelyn has a quiet word with Mama Murphy about the Commonwealth’s birth control options. The old woman grins with a leering cackle, but explains the contemporary means of preventing any surprise pregnancies. Kaelyn refuses to be embarrassed; after all, she and Nate both have fond memories of getting frisky at the park.  
  
After that, she searches for said husband. She finds him sitting at one of the benches, back pressing against the edge of the table, facing the river, a slumped silhouette of gray against the blue sky. The slope of his shoulders, the bowed line of his broad back, the sunlight gilding his auburn hair with ginger.  
  
Dogmeat perks up and trots to Nate’s side to rest his head on his knee. It takes a long moment for him to tear his gaze away from the horizon and scratch Dogmeat behind his ears. “Hey, buddy.”  
  
Uncertainty washes through her, cool and prickling like needles in her chest. Her approach is slower than Dogmeat’s; when Nate glances up to her, she pauses mid-step. “So, uh, would you like some company or do you want some alone time?”  
  
His eyes sweep over her once, taking in the ball of her foot delicately perched, ready to turn at the slightest provocation, and the way her fingers worry at the hem of her shirt. “Sure. Come on over.”  
  
Kaelyn climbs onto the table behind Nate and drapes her legs on either side of him. He leans back against her stomach and she wraps her arms around his shoulders like a mantle. His shoulders press into her belly with every breath.  
  
“Guess the weather didn’t hold up after all.”  
  
It takes Kaelyn several long moments to understand the reference. That last morning, before the end of the world, Nate had suggested they go to the park. Just before Codsworth summoned them to the TV, sheer terror breaking through his programmed cheerfulness.  
  
They watch the horizon, and Kaelyn wonders what Nate’s thinking. Perhaps he’s comparing the rad-riddled river, bare and brown and babbling, to the etchings of memory, where the maples were clothed in brilliant red, and the river flowed fast and free. From this vantage point only a few high tension power lines are visible, but even from this distance one can see the rust and disrepair cloaking the land like a pall.  
  
The Commonwealth: ripped apart and put back together wrong.  
  
“How bad is it out there?”  
  
“Bad.” She should tell him about the ruins of Boston, where the streets are sometimes choked with rubble stories high. Or about everything that wants to prey on a lone wanderer in the ‘Wealth—and that is a disappointingly long list. Or about the settlements dotted across the land, struggling to eke out a living that is as likely to be crushed in an instant as it is to be prosperous. She should tell him all this and more, to prepare him, but can’t bring herself to add more sorrows to his already stressed mind.  
  
Nate tenses, struck by a sudden thought. “What about my parents? My brothers? Oh god, Bobby hasn’t even finished school.”  
  
Kaelyn’s stomach clenches. She remembers the Prescott seniors’ tiny kitchen with those hideous brown cupboards that clashed with the yellow linoleum. How it had been utterly packed with the Prescott sons, corralled into helping prepare dinner through the sheer force of their mother Evelyn’s will.  
  
Heath, Kaelyn’s father-in-law always sat on the couch, promising to help during the next ad break but never once rising from his seat. Nate used to lean on the island just outside the kitchen’s boundary, banished to carry dishes after he had cooked the steak. Leon, the eldest, had a devastating smile that never quite charmed her as Nate’s had, and the reach to access the highest cupboards. Anders, younger than Nate and somehow twice as energetic, had once broke two wine glasses in a single evening. And little Robert, younger than his brothers by several years, had been in his senior year in 2077.  
  
“That’s a question better left unasked,” she answers.  
  
He asks, quietly, “What about your dad and your brother?”  
  
Just like that, she has a clearer picture of her _tatta_ than she has in months. Despite being a diminutive man, he could demand the attention of a room and receive it by virtue of some inherent authority. As for her brother Martin, he craved their father’s approval too much to ever stray from the path set for him.  
  
Jegan Singh would have been proud of his grandson. Mostly.  
  
For the first time, Kaelyn is glad her _amma_ didn’t live long enough to see the Great War. She doesn’t want to picture her parents’ home broken by war. Doesn’t want to contemplate whether her family had been within the blast radius, or if they survived only to succumb to radiation poisoning, or if they perished from the brutality inherent to the post-war Wasteland.  
  
Kaelyn bows her head. Her voice is less steady this time. “That’s a question better left unasked.”  
  
Nate exhales, long and deep. Almost a sigh. He keeps watching the horizon. “How could this have happened? How is it even possible?”  
  
Sometimes, she wonders.  
  
“You don’t have to take it all in at once. It’s a big shock.” Now there’s the understatement of the century. Perhaps two centuries.  
  
“The biggest,” he agrees. Despite the cavalier words, his tone is flat.  
  
Kaelyn hugs him tighter and wishes she could find the words to ease his pain. But all she has is a few useless platitudes and her own muted horror rattling about in her chest like two coins bouncing off the walls of a deep, dry well. She eases the tie out of his hair and combs through the locks with her fingers, working from the bottom when they catch on knots. She attempts to braid his hair, but it is too short for anything more that a few twists.  
  
When Nate next speaks, his voice is soft. “What was it like for you, seeing all this?”  
  
So Kaelyn combs his hair out again and selects a lock of hair just behind his ear to start a tiny braid. Her fingers flit and twist, light and quick. One rough nail catches on an auburn strand, and she unhooks it without pulling on his scalp. “Some days it feels almost normal. Some days... all I can see is how it used to be before the Great War. How wrong it all is.”  
  
He shifts, leans a forearm on her knee, careful not to pull his hair out of her hands. “How did you deal with it?”  
  
Kaelyn finishes off the current braid with great care and selects another lock of hair. “I kept busy. Poured everything into finding Shaun. Didn’t look back; didn’t look forward.”  
  
Nate twists around and Kaelyn scolds him without heat. “Stay still.” Reclaims the half-finished braid that pulled loose. Her fingers move on autopilot now, slower, while her mind is a million miles away.  
  
He fidgets now, shifting in his seat, squeezing her knee. “Lyn. Honey.”  
  
Kaelyn tries to ignore him. She’s halfway through the fourth braid when Nate says, “I never told you, but one of the reasons I retired was so that if the worst ever happened—if we fell to total war—I could be with my family instead of halfway across the country. Or across the world, even. And maybe, maybe I could put my training to good use. Keep you and Shaun safe. And I—” He chokes on a laugh that is closer to a scoff. “I failed. Utterly.”  
  
Kaelyn rests a hand on his head. “I promised you I would get Shaun back. I failed, too.”  
  
He turns, then, and presses his face into her stomach. He cannot give her peace any more than she can give it to him, but there’s something about his presence, even pale and shaking as he is, that changes the dimensions of her grief from something hard and lonely to something they can carry between them. The kind of bond no parent ever wants to have.

—

Over the next few days, Nate recovers enough to brave the outside world for longer periods of time. Kaelyn is compelled to explain the last five months to him, in a halting story that tumbles out piece by piece like eroded chunks of rock skittering down a cliff face. She can only give the barest of bones: finding Nick, tracking Kellogg, making contact with the Railroad, finding a way into the Institute. Meeting Shaun. Except for the Institute’s efforts to sabotage and terrorize the Commonwealth; these she finds herself describing in lurid detail, hoping to find some kernel of justification for what she did in reciting their abuses.  
  
“Was Shaun their prisoner?” Nate asks.  
  
Kaelyn has to take a moment to compose herself. “It would have been easier if he was. Shaun became the Institute’s Director. Their leader. He believed in their vision of the future. The experiments he sanctioned...” She stares out the window, suddenly feeling tired. “That isn’t how I would have raised our son.”  
  
From his disbelieving frown, it’s clear he can’t picture it. Not their sweet, giggling baby. “Why didn’t you try to change his mind?”  
  
A helpless frustration crests within her, sudden and fierce. “I _tried,_ Nate! I did everything I could to talk him down, to show him that the Commonwealth is not the Institute’s personal laboratory. I tried to show him that the Institute was wrong, but he never listened.” Just like that, the indignant spark extinguishes, leaving her more tired than ever. “He spent almost his entire life in the Institute. Of course he’d believe what they told him.”  
  
“So you got revenge on the Institute, is that right? Like Kellogg?”  
  
If he thinks Shaun died before she started he synth rebellion, she doesn’t have the heart to correct him.  
  
She doesn’t tell him about Desdemona’s retaliation against the Brotherhood of Steel.  
  
Nate takes off after that conversation, and Kaelyn gives him space. There’s always work to be done around Sanctuary: repairs and renovations, tending the crops planted in what once was green lawns, patrolling the perimeter. Kaelyn throws herself into these tasks, wishing they could distract her. No such luck. Kaelyn and Jun patch one of the broken walls at what used to be the Parkers’ residence and now belongs to the Longs. Marcy, who is most excellent at haggling, secured some tin sheets from the last trader who passed by Sanctuary, but they’ve been too busy tending the crops to make time for nonessential repairs.  
  
After patching the holes in the walls, Kaelyn and Jun lean against the blue-tile wall, panting and sweating, and she peels off her thick gloves. Dogmeat, who has been relaxing in nearby shade, perks up with a whuff, his ears pricked forward. She follows his gaze to see Nate approaching with a bottle of water. A peace offering.  
  
“There you are,” he says. “Thought you guys might want a break.”  
  
Kaelyn invites Jun to drink first before gulping down what’s left.  
  
Jun glances between Kaelyn and Nate. “Have you seen Marcy?”  
  
“She’s watering the corn.”  
  
Jun takes his leave with a muted thank you. Nate slides into the spot Jun vacated and glances over his shoulder at the tin sheets covering the wall, an ugly bandage that fits surprisingly well against the aqua wall tiles. Finally, he sighs. “I guess the Parkers aren’t going to need this place anymore.”  
  
“If I’m being honest, when Preston first said they were coming to settle in Sanctuary, my gut reaction was that they couldn’t just take our neighbors’ homes,” Kaelyn confesses. “But I’m glad they did. I guess I’m just lucky no one else decided to move in earlier.”  
  
Nate hums in agreement and reaches over to take her hand. “If you’re finished, how about a clean up?”  
  
Kaelyn looks down at herself and has to agree. Her shirt is rumpled, dark with sweat and flecked with stray rust. A light breeze highlights every sweaty part of her body—which is most of it. Thankfully, with Codsworth around their worries of clean water sources are lessened and they can spare enough for a quick rinse-off. Once, she might have taken the opportunity to get revenge for all the times Nate has given her surprise hugs while drenched with sweat, but now it seems profoundly unimportant.  
  
Preston is the only one out on the street now, and when he sees them, he changes direction mid-step, laser musket smacking against his back. He’s kitted up with what little he owns, and his face is a severe mask.  
  
Kaelyn just knows what Preston will say before he even opens his mouth.

“I’m sorry I’ve got to do this, but I’ve got word of another settlement that needs our help.” He at least looks somewhat contrite, although it is foolish to ignore the determination that burns quietly underneath.  
  
“And we’re the closest Minutemen in the area?”  
  
“Not the closest, but the best equipped.”  
  
“You know, I’m starting to regret giving you that promotion.” Nevertheless, Kaelyn stifles a sigh and leads the way down the street, while Nate looks between them with increasing confusion. “Raiders, ferals or super mutants?”  
  
“Raiders holed up near Tenpines Bluff.”  
  
“My favorite.” With her power armor still out of commission, fighting super mutants is not a welcome prospect.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, hold up a minute,” Nate frowns between Kaelyn and Preston. “What’s going on here?”  
  
“We’re with the Minutemen. When a settlement calls for help, the Minutemen respond,” Preston explains. He takes a second look at them both. “Like I said, I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t necessary. I’ll leave you to it, Ge— Kaelyn. Meet me at the bridge when you’re ready.”  
  
Kaelyn takes advantage of Nate’s incredulity to slip into their house, calling out to Codsworth that she’ll be leaving, and he sets to work packing clean water and what food they can spare. Nate follows hot on her heels as she steps into the bedroom to find her jacket. It is a well-beaten thing, so worn the thick leather is buttery soft and its dull black is closer to green. The ballistic weave inside it has saved her life many times. Shrugging it over her shoulders, she glances to the dresser and decides against packing a change of clothes.  
  
In the corner sits a pilfered steamer trunk. Kneeling in front of it, Kaelyn lifts the heavy lid to reveal her substantial weapons collection like malformed, malevolent pearls secure inside a clamshell.  
  
Dead silence behind her.  
  
Then, softly: “You have to be kidding me.”  
  
Ignoring the eyes boring into the side of her head—or trying to, anyway—Kaelyn paws through her personal arsenal with great care, shifting her Railway Rifle to search for Deliverer, which usually falls into a corner at the bottom. The pistol is a familiar weight on her thigh. Her laser musket is a must, not only because it identifies her as a Minutewoman but because that makeshift contraption of wood, wires and duct tape has served her well.  
  
Kaelyn weighs up her sniper rifle. “Sniper rifle—yes? No?”  
  
Nate snaps to when he sees the massive firearm. His tone is as sharp as she’s ever heard it. “Can we stop for one minute and talk about this?”  
  
Kaelyn swivels on the balls of her feet to look up at her husband. Bites down on a strange burst of impatience. Drawing in a deep breath until her voice can remain placid, she says, “Sure. What did you want to say?”  
  
“Uh, isn’t it obvious?” He’s exasperated now, and the unfamiliar emotion draws Kaelyn up short. “Since when have you been okay with getting into a firefight? And the Minutemen are apparently back? What the hell?”  
  
She has to wonder if this is what she looked like to him when she protested him signing on for his final tour of duty. “Nate—”  
  
“Don’t you ‘Nate’ me. You’re going to leave? Just like that?”  
  
Something in his tone catches in her chest, puts her on the defensive. Crouching down puts her at a disadvantage, so she rises to her feet but doesn’t turn to face him fully. She eyes her sunglasses on the nightstand, wishing to snatch them up and put them on. “There’s no reason to wait. The sooner we get it over with, the better.”  
  
“And you’re comfortable with—what, exactly? Marching out there to gun those raiders down? You’re telling me that you’re comfortable with _that?”_ Nate waves a large hand at her makeshift weapons locker. “You forbade me from keeping a handgun in the house, for crying out loud.”  
  
The wife he remembers wasn’t a killer, and Kaelyn mourns the death of that woman as much as everything else she’s lost. Shuffling on her feet, she checks that Deliverer’s holster is secure on her thigh. “Don’t have much choice out here.”  
  
Nate grabs her shoulders and spins her around in a swift movement, but she can’t place all of the emotions running over his face: the now-familiar grief carved into grooves around his mouth, the regret crinkling his eyes, the fear that sharpens his green gaze into something that could cut. And, oh, underneath it all is that fierce protectiveness, that willingness to stare into the barrel of a gun and not waver.  
  
His hands run down her arms to catch her hands, and there’s something so very tender about the way he holds their entwined hands between them. “I don’t want you to go. I won’t be able to keep you safe out there.” They both know he will only be a liability out there, so there’s no point pretending otherwise.  
  
He’ll stand between her and the world if she’ll let him. And most likely if she won’t, too.  
  
Funny, because she’ll do the same thing for him.  
  
“I’m sorry, hon.” And then Kaelyn stretches on her toes to kiss him.  
  
His mouth is hot and familiar and desperate. Her hands come up on either side of his jaw to hold him where she wants him, but her restless fingers soon slide into the hair at his nape for a better grip. Nate growls low in his throat and tilts his head for easier access. She pushes and he pushes back, tongues clashing and teeth biting. His hand skims down her spine, settling at the small of her back to pull her closer still, until they are pressed together with no space to breathe.  
  
Kaelyn pulls back first, her gasps quick and shallow, and Nate bumps his forehead against hers.  
  
“You can’t just kiss me and everything’s fine.” But his arms are tight around her waist, pulling her closer, and his heart is a wild drum under her hands where they now rest on his chest.  
  
“No,” she agrees simply. “But for now, it’ll have to do.” She steps back with great reluctance when he releases her.  
  
Nate doesn’t look any happier about their current arrangement. He runs a hand over his face and sighs, short and terse. “I don’t like you going out there by yourself. I don’t like it at all.”  
  
Kaelyn catches his hand and brings it to her lips. “It’s just for a few days, and then I’ll be home.”  
  
He presses his forehead to hers, his fingers tight on her shoulders. His short exhale fans over her cheek. “Just— come back, okay? Or else I’ll come looking for you.”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t doubt it. “I will. I promise.”  
  
Slowly, it dawns on her that she should pull away and finish getting ready. Still, it takes her another minute to summon the will to do so. He lets her go with great reluctance.  
  
“How long will you be gone?” Nate asks as she crouches down to her weapon locker again.  
  
Kaelyn drums her nails against the suppressor on her sniper rifle, thinking, then consults her pip-boy to check her geography. “Three or four days, maybe, provided the weather holds and we aren’t otherwise waylaid. A day to get out there, a day to take care of the raiders, maybe a day to get the settlement back of their feet, and a day to return.”  
  
“A day to get there? Just how far away is this place?”  
  
Kaelyn’s laugh is short and brittle. “There are no cars anymore. No transport other than the old fashioned way.” She searches her dresser for a pouch of bobby pins and a screwdriver, both of which hang on her belt, and meets Nate’s raised eyebrow with a shrug. “They’re good for picking locks.”  
  
His second eyebrow joins the first, but he says nothing.  
  
Kaelyn loads her weapons, checking the safety on each, and fills a small satchel with spare ammo and flares. This is slung over her shoulder, and is soon joined by the two rifles. She fits the flare gun into its holster at her waist, under her jacket. With a final check that everything is in place, she declares herself ready. On her way out the door she snags her secondhand fedora.  
  
As she passes by the kitchen, Codsworth hands her a small backpack. “Do be careful out there, mum!”  
  
“I will, Codsworth. See you in a few days.”  
  
Nate follows her to the bridge to see her off. The sun burns overhead, gray and overbright, just tipped over the zenith to begin its slow descent to the horizon where the mountains poise like snapping teeth to swallow it. The gray road, no matter how cracked and choked with weeds, reflects heat upward.  
  
She whistles for Dogmeat and he pads up to her side, ears pricked forward. “Time to go, buddy.”  
  
As promised, Preston waits at the bridge, poised like a living, breathing version of the statue standing tall across the river. “You ready?” he asks.  
  
Kaelyn stretches to kiss Nate’s cheek. “Bye, honey. I love you.”  
  
Nate grips her shoulders, his gaze dark. “Come back to me. I love you.” He manages to hold his tongue on any further comments, but can’t contain the look he shoots Preston. _If anything happens to her, it’s on you._  
  
When Kaelyn turns to follow Preston, she refuses to look back at the husband she leaves leaning against the sign, so very alive and hurt, to kill raiders instead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW. SFW version can be found [here.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12381385/4/Marriage-and-Other-Forms-of-War)
> 
> Recommended listening: [Pure Feeling by Florence + the Machine.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5yEpOw-YXw)

They follow the road, for whatever it’s worth. A rusted guardrail ribbons beside the road in a pathetic attempt at a straight line while grass encroaches underneath it to seize any crack in the road. Dogmeat bounds ahead, chasing birds that screech and scatter at his approach. While they walk, Kaelyn consults her pip-boy and they decide on the fastest route to Tenpines Bluff as well as a backup in case they have to detour.  
  
She goes digging in her bag for water and discovers Codsworth has prepared a sizable stack of brahmin steak sandwiches. A late lunch on the road, then. They take it in turns to eat so one person has a weapon in hand, but Dogmeat still frolics with an easy weightlessness. Even so, Kaelyn continually scans the nearby scrub as well as the growing valley beside the road. When it’s her turn to eat, she stomachs what she can and then feeds bits of steak to Dogmeat.  
  
They reach the northern outskirts of Concord within an hour. The streets are empty, flanked by gray houses stripped of vitality that gape and sigh in the fierce mid-afternoon stillness.  
  
There’s something worryingly familiar—not comfortable, but familiar—about lengthening her stride and setting her sights on a destination halfway across the Commonwealth. As if the world will start to make sense if only she walks far enough. That piercing ache behind her breastbone remains, of course, and she suspects it’s something she will carry for the rest of her life in one form or another.  
  
This has all been too much to be real. But too much to be false, either. Her emotions pull in every direction, tethered to a lead-heavy heart, until she can’t tell if it’s relief or regret spurring her forward. Nor can she tell what it makes her as a person.  
  
Buildings give way to shrub land, where dark bushes line the road. Down the hill, a pond has escaped the bounds of its banks to lap at the road. Slender trunks rise out of the black water; fluttering leaves make ripples on its dead surface. A tiny flicker of green glows in its depths. By the time Kaelyn blinks and double-takes, there is nothing. Irradiated fish, perhaps?  
  
She steps on algae-slick chunks of asphalt that slant treacherously towards the water with as much delicacy she can manage. Preston swears; she grabs his arm to steady him as he teeters.  
  
They hit a crossroads and keep tracking east, late afternoon shadows chasing them across the ground and snapping at their heels. The freeway overpass looms with every step until they grow so close that deep shuddering groans travel up her legs through the ground and she can see the vines hanging from the overpass sway.  
  
“Thanks for coming with me,” Preston says soon after. “I was expecting you to fight me on it. Figured you’d want to stay with your husband.”  
  
“I just... need time to clear my head,” she says.  
  
“I hear ya. If you ever need to talk, I’m here. Not sure I can offer much in the way of advice, but I can listen.”  
  
Kaelyn gives it honest consideration. Preston knows something of being the sole survivor, of collecting what little you have left only for the Commonwealth to whittle it away piece by piece. He knows something of the gnawing fear that creeps up at the unlikeliest times, that pushes you beyond your limits to protect your people. But the words are stones in her chest, each one a pebble that lines the bottom of a dark, rapid-flowing river. So she only says, “Thanks, Preston.”  
  
He tips the brim of his hat in her direction. “Hope I didn’t cause too much strife between you and Nate.”  
  
She is silent for one step, then two, then three. “Honestly? Something like this was coming anyway. I’ve— things have changed, and nothing is like what Nate remembers. When he cools off, he’ll probably jump on board the idea of the Minutemen. It’s why he served. To protect his friends and family.”  
  
“Served where?”  
  
“In the army. Back when there was an army, and a United States to give them orders.”  
  
Preston drums his fingers along the barrel of his laser musket, his expression distant and thoughtful. “Long time ago, that.”  
  
She clears her throat. “What about you? How’s general-hood treating you so far?”  
  
Preston accepts her transparent attempt to change the subject. “It’s a huge honor... and a huge responsibility. I don’t know if I’m ready for it, but I do know that the Minutemen have the power to do a lot of good. Just gotta bring out what’s best in people, and not their worst. This has to be a big change for you, too. Not many people step back from power once they’ve got it.”  
  
“Now there’s an uncomfortable truth. But the Minutemen—and the Commonwealth—are more important than maintaining my power.”  
  
Preston smiles, a toothless, fleeting thing. “I wish more had your attitude. I radioed the Castle an informed them of the change in leadership. Just a heads up, Ronnie Shaw wants to deck you for passing the torch with no witnesses. Now the Colonels think they can pull me into their petty disputes.” From his expression, he wants to use stronger language.  
  
Kaelyn has to raise an eyebrow. “Weren’t you liaising with them before now?”  
  
“Yeah, but before I could just say the General is unavailable and she’ll see to it when she stops in. Not possible anymore. Can I interest you in becoming an honorary Colonel?”  
  
“Wouldn’t I need to command a division of Minutemen for that?”  
  
“Hence the honorary part. It doesn’t seem right to not acknowledge what you’ve done for the Minutemen.”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t want acknowledgments. Not now; maybe not ever.  
  
The road gives way at Bedford Station, where three ferals lurk in the tin shed. Kaelyn and Preston duck around stone blocks from the quarry stacked haphazardly like children’s blocks, and follow the railway. She keeps an eye out for loose spikes as they walk. They divert from the track when it cuts through a steep valley; they prefer to be visible from the top of a hill than be pinned in the valley. In a strange turn of good luck, nothing shoots at them while they’re exposed.  
  
By sundown they aren’t far from Tenpines Bluff by Preston’s reckoning, but the encroaching evening carries only the barest sliver of moonlight and a half-cast of clouds.  
  
“Better to stop now than risk a broken neck or stepping on a feral,” he says.  
  
A shallow hollow at the base of a tree serves as their camping ground. Erosion has worn away the dirt at its base, exposing the swollen joints of it roots, and old claw marks suggest some animal extended the work of the elements. Dogmeat prowls up to the tree, nose to the ground but finds nothing. With no scat or signs of half-eaten meals, the likelihood of the hollow’s original owner being nearby is low.  
  
She eats when Preston does, because he’ll hound her otherwise. They don’t waste time with a fire, so it’s tinned beans tonight. They are moist and tasteless, textureless. Afterwards, Preston takes first watch with Dogmeat drooling onto his thigh. Kaelyn curls into the roots’ wooden embrace, twisting her back to meet their curvature, using Codsworth’s backpack as a pillow. Ambient animal sounds are few and far between. Since there are no giant irradiated crickets—that Kaelyn has found, anyway—any loud humming is between her ears.  
  
When Preston wakes Kaelyn for her watch, her back is a mess of knots and her shoulders ache. They swap places, but he doesn’t even attempt to fit into the hollow and hooks his knees over one of the larger roots. She looks up at the stars through a web of branches. She doesn’t attempt to search for the constellations she knows.  
  
Before dawn they rise and shake themselves off, take turns to empty their bladders behind a bush somewhere, and set out without a word passing between them. Under a heavy gunmetal sky they walk, passing twisted silhouettes of trees that reach upwards as if in supplication to a higher power Kaelyn must question. Thick vines hang in clumps amongst the branches and for a moment she thinks they’re hanging bodies and she’s stumbled into a raider nest. Dawn creeps up softly, tinting the sky rose-gray, then burns it gold. Kaelyn is just relieved for an excuse to put on her sunglasses.  
  
When the settlement is in view, she falls back a step to let Preston take the lead. They are met at the outer field by a sunburned man with hair that might be blond under the grime. He hefts a shovel in his hands, the movement too conspicuous to be casual, and calls out a greeting. “Hold up there.” Then he notices the laser muskets they both carry. “Are you with the Minutemen?”  
  
“Sure are,” Preston says. “What can we do to help?”  
  
“Raiders,” he answers plainly. “I’ll find Rosie. She’s the one who sent out for help.”  
  
The farmer returns in short order with the aforementioned Rosie, who is tall and shapely and somehow sharp. Her gaze snaps over the two Minutemen and she nods once to herself, her thick black curls bouncing around her face. “A raider gang calling themselves the Blue Bleeders have taken up in Outpost Zimonja. There’s a game trail Carl and Raj use that winds up the ridge and should give you a decent look down the valley. I don’t know how just the two of you can take out some dozen-odd raiders, but I can’t complain. One of the boys can show you where the trail begins. Any questions?”  
  
“No, I think that about covers it,” Preston says. “We’ll take care of the raiders for you.”  
  
Raj leads them up a hill and into the trees. A clump of mutated ferns marks the beginning of the narrow trail that winds up the hill. Here the grass has been stamped away by hooves and stems broken by passing bulk. Dogmeat investigates the area, ears swiveling at nearby bird calls.  
  
Wishing them good luck, Raj ducks away and barely avoids walking into a low-hanging branch.  
  
The trail is narrow enough that they must travel in single file: Dogmeat at the lead, with his keen senses to pick up the trail where visible signs peter out, then Kaelyn, and Preston bringing up the rear. It leads them up gradually steeper ground. Here what plants remain are tougher, clinging to the ridge with thick roots dug between boulders. The trail winds dangerously close to a rocky outcrop that offers a clear view of the valley.  
  
Kaelyn unshoulders her sniper rifle and drops to the ground to crawl up to the ledge on her elbows, brushing Dogmeat’s curious muzzle out of her face. Two boulders offer some degree of cover, so she rests the barrel of her rifle in the crook between then puts her eye to the scope.  
  
The raiders have claimed a construction yard as the heart of their territory. Overturned prefabs now house people who plunder and murder their way through the Commonwealth. Makeshift catwalks around the central prefab, occupied by three well-adorned raiders, give the impression of a crude castle presided by its king. Two bodies hang from nooses off the highest balcony, naked and bloating under the sun, but from their scars it is possible they were raiders themselves rather than innocent prisoners. Three oversized cooking fires belch greasy black smoke into the air, but only one is monitored, and only then because the raider in question is roasting a whole mole rat on a skewer.  
  
Almost a dozen raiders are visible, loitering in the shade or playing cards or placing bets on a three-way scuffle that has broken out in the middle of the yard. No one guards the gate or any of the gaping holes in the fence.  
  
Kaelyn relays all this information to Preston, who has likewise dropped to his stomach and slid into position beside her.  
  
“Any prisoners?”  
  
“I can see cages, but...” She forces herself to look at what’s inside them. “No one alive. Not that I can see.”  
  
“We’ve got the advantage up here, but once we start shooting it’s only a matter of time before they find us.” Preston scowls at the valley wall underneath them: steep, but littered with loose rocks that could provide easy handholds for motivated risk-takers.  
  
Kaelyn peers down the scope again, wondering who would make the best target. Firing into the knot of fighters and the ring of jeering onlookers would likely guarantee a hit, but as the leader shouts something from his perch and jerks a thumb at the hanged men, Kaelyn decides he or one of his lieutenants lounging nearby would make a better target. With luck, the lower-ranked mooks might fall into disarray.  
  
“You know, that’s a perfect target for an artillery strike,” Preston remarks.  
  
They look at each other.

A quiet radio transmission to Radio Freedom confirms that, yes, their target is in artillery range. Putting aside her sniper rifle, Kaelyn draws her flare gun. Preston also loads a flare in his own, and they agree on where to shoot before leaning around the boulders.  
  
Kaelyn’s target is the nearest prefab nearest to them, out of sight from the main camp. There’s no concealing a smoke signal, but every extra second counts, and lessens the chance of a raider meddling before it can release its payload.  
  
“How good a shot are the people manning the artillery?” Kaelyn asks.  
  
“Decent enough, not that they get much practice,” Preston answers. “Why?”  
  
“I want to know how far we have to run.”  
  
He lets out a sharp breath that could qualify as a laugh. “As far as we can. Ready on three.”  
  
Kaelyn lines up the sights and squeezes the trigger on Preston’s mark.  
  
With the smoke from the fires, it takes the raiders several seconds to realize something is wrong. By then Kaelyn and Preston have already scrambled back into the trees, Dogmeat at their heels, and run as far as they can before the tell-tale whistle sings behind them.  
  
The world shakes.  
  
Preston grabs her by the waist and slings them both to the ground at first impact. For the first few seconds her nerves are alight, convinced this is the prelude to another nuclear bombing. The ground shudders beneath them, its great hide rippling and tearing. Dust and wind kick up, hot as scalding ash on the back of her neck. Blood pounds in her ears, but nothing is loud enough to overpower the bone-rattling explosions. Hails of dirt clods fall, too weighty to be rain.  
  
Again and again they strike, relentless as lightning seeking metal, each round letting loose a deafening boom. Kaelyn claps her hands over her ears but they shake with each impact and her heart shakes and the world _won’t stop shaking._  
  
_No radiation,_ she chants to herself, a litany she recites lest she completely lose her head. _No radiation. No radiation._  
  
Silence.  
  
Preston sits up, pulling her with him, and for several moments she is pressed back against his chest, barely able to hear through the church bells tolling in her ears. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re not hurt.”  
  
Belatedly, Kaelyn realizes she is still shaking. Sucking down one breath, then two, she can taste the dust and smoke in her throat. “I’m all right,” she gasps. Dogmeat noses her cheek with a whine, and she pats him. “Let’s track any survivors.”  
  
Preston hauls her to her feet and they retrace their path to the rock ledge. Shaking herself out, Kaelyn unslings her sniper rifle again and resumes her position. The outpost is a burning wreck, smoke and dust billowing like a flag. Debris is strewn about the yard. Broken buildings and broken bodies. A lucky strike hit the leader’s balcony dead on.  
  
A woman is staggering away from the site, her back charred. Kaelyn puts her out of her misery; doesn’t watch her fall with a hole in her torso to confirm the kill. Another group is trying to scale the opposite valley wall. Two are dragging a third, but when it becomes to difficult to climb and carry him, they drop their comrade and kick him down the hill for good measure. Drawing in a steady breath, Kaelyn thanks the lack of a breeze as she takes aim, making the adjustments Deacon taught her. When the first keels over with a red hole in his back, the remaining raiders cringe away and search for the sniper.  
  
When she shoots a second raider, the game is up.  
  
Kaelyn ducks behind her rocky cover as a hail of gunfire rattles off the stone. When it falls silent, she peeks out but hardly gets the rifle’s barrel supported before they’re firing again. A bullet whizzes too close to her head and she hisses. Dogmeat is growling beside her, on his belly, hackles raised.  
  
“I’ll cover you!”  
  
“Preston—!”  
  
But he’s already leaning out, laser musket hot and red and seething. Kaelyn leans out in a different spot, ignoring the cacophony of gunfire, and blows off the arm of one of the remaining raiders. That woman’s as good as dead. A laser hits another; even when he’s supposed to be a distraction, Preston’s aim is true.  
  
Kaelyn is too hasty in her next shot and misses, but the last raider jumps away from the hail of dirt and into Preston’s steady line of sight.  
  
He lets out out a whoop when the last raider falls. Kaelyn remains silent.  
  
He nudges her shoulder. “Let’s make sure that was all of them.”  
  
A thorough scour of the area, approaching as close to the cratered destruction as they dare, yields no more survivors. The artillery strike has ruined any chance of recovering any goods from the nest, so they don’t linger.  
  
There’s a commotion at Tenpines Bluff when they return. At the bray of a brahmin, however, Kaelyn and Preston lower their weapons. Neither of them relax their grips on their guns.  
  
Traders have stopped by Tenpines just in time to hear the story of the artillery strike first hand from Preston and Kaelyn. Or rather, Preston tells it while Kaelyn browses the wares with Rosie. Kaelyn manages to get her hands on a mostly-intact copy of _Grognak the Barbarian and the Jungle of the Bat Babies._ It’s an impulsive buy, one that earns a wistful smile from Preston when he peers over her shoulder.  
  
“Read every comic I could find when I was a kid,” he says.  
  
“Nate and I waged wars over whether _Grognak_ or _Live and Love_ is better. I can’t stand that stupid barbarian.” When Preston raises an eyebrow and throws a significant look at the comic she holds, she says simply, “I thought he might like this.”  
  
Understanding softens Preston’s face.  
  
They find Rosie leaning back on her heels with her arms folded while Raj haggles with another merchant in the caravan.  
  
“We don’t have much in the way of caps,” she says, apologetic but firm, “but you’re welcome to share our food and our shack for tonight.”  
  
A refusal is on the tip of Kaelyn’s tongue, but Preston is faster and accepts the offer with a grateful smile. She picks at her vegetables and keeps her gaze low to avoid seeing Rosie snuggle between Raj and Carl on the log-turned-bench across the fire, but she can’t tune out their teasing. Doesn’t want the reminder of what happiness looks like. With no lights other than the fire and no entertainments, the settlers have no reason to stay up late when another day of hard labor looms behind the night.  
  
Two thin mattresses lie on the floor. Rosie insists Kaelyn and Preston take one, barreling through Preston’s demurs, while the three settlers somehow contort to fit on the other without anyone poking an eye out. When everyone is settled, Raj extinguishes the lantern. Kaelyn and Preston lie back-to-back, and it doesn’t escape her notice that he’s planted himself between her and the doorway.  
  
Kaelyn pulls out the comic as quietly as she can and runs a finger along the roughened edges. She remembers seeing the cover on the kitchen counter that last morning and laughing at it. Nate had protested her scorn at his favorite with an exaggerated pout and a raspberry blown on her shoulder. She raises her fingers to prod her mouth and realizes one corner has kicked up in a smile. Putting the comic in her bag where it won’t get bent, she wraps an arm around Dogmeat and buries her face in his fur.  
  
She wakes to a soft morning glow. Slats of yellow light drift through the rafters, heralding another day in the Commonwealth. Rosie and Raj are going through their morning routine while Carl snores softly. Kaelyn rolls to face the wall while they dress, and when the settlers are outside hissing an argument over the cooking pot, she turns over again to find Preston too is awake. All they have to do is collect their weapons and bags then they are stepping around Carl, who slid halfway off the mattress during the night.  
  
Rosie refuses to let them slip off without breakfast: grainy porridge made on mutfruit juice. And then Kaelyn is standing at the edge of the road and Preston is waving goodbye and they’re off.  
  
By midday thick clouds have rolled inland, leeching any warmth out of the day, fitting together like nebulous puzzle pieces to close off the sky. At least they are too light to carry rain.  
  
Preston keeps to his thoughts, while Kaelyn keeps herself from thinking.  
  
A wandering deathclaw forces them to detour south in a generous radius. She should be frustrated at the universe conniving to keep her from Nate by any means possible, but she can only feel tired. The land here is softened by tributaries that run into the lake and the occasional fog that rolls out of it. One such fog creeps up as the afternoon wears away, beginning as a mist that blurs the harsh edges of bare tree trunks and jutting rocks. It thickens until it is a lighter gray than the sky above.  
  
Preston loses his footing on the hill they’re crossing and skids down in a cloud of dust and gravel. Kaelyn follows immediately and, after checking he’s all right, they look for a way to get back up.  
  
Instead, they find something completely different.  
  
Cars lie like rusted coffins in uneven rows, jostled from the shock wave two hundred years ago like a child’s scattered toys. Fog lingers in every dip of the once-flat car park, smoothing out cracks in the asphalt. An enormous wall dominates the westernmost side of the lot, once-white panels falling away to reveal the metal frame underneath. It is not a wall at all, Kaelyn realizes, but a screen, and with the swiftness of a knife to her chest she knows where they are.  
  
Preston turns in a circle as they walk, laser musket primed in his hands no matter how curious he is. “What is this place?”  
  
“Starlight Drive In,” she answers. Her voice is soft in the gloom.  
  
“Look, there’s a building.” He points with the point of his rifle to a dark silhouette rising out of the gray evening like the bow of a proud ship sailing through silent waters. “We might find a place to sleep in there.”  
  
Kaelyn runs her eyes over the sleek towering lines of the building. “That’ll be the offices. Up top was where they would project the film onto the big screen.”  
  
Aside from a mole rat infestation, they are alone. There’s a sleeping bag, some chems and a blackened skillet in the narrow projection room, but they are damp and dusty. Kaelyn packs the chems into the skillet and buries the whole thing outside while Preston and Dogmeat conduct a final sweep of the place.  
  
Settled in the projection room, they risk a small fire under the counter, shielded from the elements and curious eyes alike. Soon the probing fingers of fog that creep through broken windows and up the stairs are beaten back by the sizzle of fried hotcakes and thick slices of meat. Their dinner cools at an alarming rate once they take it off the heat, but it doesn’t stop them from conversing around mouthfuls of food.  
  
“Sure, we used to come down here,” she says. It is impossible to reminisce without that hollow pang in her chest, but tonight it’s a welcome ache. “You’d drive in, wind the windows down and watch a film on the big screen from the comfort of your car. They had snacks for sale, of course, but it was always cheaper to bring your own.”  
  
Preston looks out the window to the dead parking lot. From his expression, it seems he’s trying to picture it.  
  
“A few girlfriends and I spent a lot of Friday nights down here. Susan would borrow her father’s Chryslus Rocket so we could sit in luxury.” She has to take a moment when grief crawls up her throat. The memories haunt her. Padma’s playful smile and Susan’s relentless gossip, and the way Andrea would make kissing noises from the back seat whenever a serious scene played on screen, usually when the hero and villain were monologuing at each other.  
  
It scares her how long it’s been since she’s thought of them.  
  
“It became harder to find the time when I was studying, but we came out to celebrate after I passed my bar exam—”  
  
“Bar exam?” Preston repeats. “What’s alcohol got to do with this?”  
  
Despite herself, Kaelyn chuckles once and explains the process. She can remember being given shotgun in celebration, and thanks to pre-movie drinks—a bottle of Nuka-Cola and three cocktails—needing to use a restroom ten minutes into the film. Then she sighs, short and terse. “Then I met Nate, and we came out here for a few dates. With inflation, it was already getting expensive to go to theaters. After we got married, we never found the time with everything going on. And then we had Shaun and definitely didn’t have the time or money to burn.”  
  
Preston makes a thoughtful noise and rests a forearm on his raised knee. “You two were really happy together, weren’t you?”  
  
“The happiest,” she croaks out. “I just can’t believe he’s alive. A part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don’t think I could stand it if I lost anything else.”  
  
She can’t shake the bone-deep dread that Nate will vanish at any moment. That this is one prolonged dream, or that the gunshot wound will finally kill him after sixty years, or that she’ll turn around around and he will simply be gone, as if he never existed beyond a mere figment of her grief-stricken mind.  
  
“At least he seems to be healing up well,” Preston says, and Kaelyn is beset by twin impulses to hug him and sigh at his undaunted optimism.  
  
“I watched Kellogg shoot him. But I never checked his body.” She closes her eyes and thunks her head back against the wall once, twice. “Stupid, stupid.”  
  
Once again, the horror of it crawls up her throat. If she had just checked his pod, or even tried to bury him earlier, things would have been different.  
  
“I really can’t blame you for not wanting to go back to make sure he was dead.”  
  
Kaelyn’s head flops to look at him. “You would have.”  
  
He concedes the point with a grimace, then tries again. “What I’m saying is you shouldn’t blame yourself.”  
  
“Thanks, Preston.”  
  
He takes the hint and lets her be; volunteers to take first watch while she inspects the abandoned sleeping bag.  
  
She cries that night, a little. Pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, but soon they are slick with hot tears. With enough practice, she can keep her breathing mostly even, save for the occasional shuddering gasp. Dogmeat shuffles his way up to her face and heaves a humid sigh against her neck. He licks salt water off her chin with a whine so faint she can barely hear it.  
  
By the time Preston shakes Kaelyn’s shoulder, her face is dry and prickles with salt and saliva. She hasn’t slept. She concedes the sleeping bag to him and slips outside onto the wide roof. It almost reminds her of a Red Rocket Stop, the way the roof arches up and away, as if tracking the liftoff of some airborne object. Nothing catches her eye at her first sweep of the area below. She slides down the wall to sit cross legged, surveying the sluggish gray that rolls below like silent phantom waves. She’s about to set her sniper rifle across her lap when Dogmeat drapes his furry bulk over her legs.  
  
“Or not,” she mutters and rests the rifle beside her, out of paw range. But she still scratches Dogmeat behind his ears and he sighs happily.  
  
Kaelyn’s hand creeps to her neck, but it’s bereft of the dog tags that she’s grown so accustomed to—grown to find comfort in, even. So instead she closes her eyes and pictures them in her mind, reciting them letter by letter, number by number, drawing their shapes on her shoulder with a finger.  
  
_PRESCOTT_  
_NATHANIEL S_  
_583 65 9210_  
_AB POS_  
_AGNOSTIC_  
  
Morning is nothing more than a relief from black to blue to gray. After a cold meal they leave while the fog is still thick and pearly along the ground, softening the edges of this jagged, broken Commonwealth. Kaelyn is glad for it. She doesn’t want to risk seeing a Chryslus Rocket in the parking lot.  
  
Preston shares her haste, and after determining where exactly they are on the map, they make it to Concord in just four hours. The sun is a ferocious disk hovering behind their backs, chasing them west with the growing day. Any moisture lingering from yesterday’s weather soon burns away into the atmosphere under the sun’s scorching kiss.  
  
When they turn into the road that cuts north, Kaelyn is beset by a sudden insecurity, and she doesn’t know whether to quicken or slow her pace. She doesn’t want to return victorious from another killing spree to find she’s been yet again robbed of someone precious, but at the same time she can’t stand not knowing, that uncertainty throbbing like a bruise too deep under her skin to show.  
  
Nate’s real. He’s alive. He has to be.  
  
Four days after leaving her husband wounded in Sanctuary Hills, Kaelyn steps onto the bridge that will lead her home.

Nate still sleeps odd hours, and is completely out of it when Kaelyn creeps into their bedroom, freshly showered. She feels drained from the trip, so she kicks off her boots and her pants before climbing in beside him. Nate is half-curled on his side, an unusual position for him, favoring his healing injury. She runs a hand over his hair, then keeps her distance, curling near the edge of the bed.  
  
Nate’s breathing lulls her into warm darkness.  
  
She feels peculiar, somehow, but cannot place the feeling It doesn’t feel wrong, just unusual—and then there’s a sigh beside her, warm breath over her ear, and she realizes Nate is sleeping beside her.  
  
Oh.  
  
That peculiarity stems from the heat of his skin pressed against hers, of the heavy arm draped over her waist. Kaelyn stretches, carefully, and drags her toes down the hair on his shins. Nate mumbles into the pillow but doesn’t wake. She rolls onto her side, feeling the lump that is his arm under her pillow, and his hip against her belly. Her hand creeps to his heart, beating slow and strong. She runs her hand up and down his chest, starting at his breastbone and gliding down to his stomach and then back again.  
  
Nate’s arm tightens around her waist. “Don’t do that if you’re not willing to follow through on it,” he rumbles, muffled by his pillow.  
  
“You don’t find it soothing?”  
  
He snorts. “Just the opposite.”  
  
“You sound like a bear.”  
  
He snorts again. Without opening his eyes, he lifts his arm to trap her wayward hand.  
  
When she next rouses enough to open her eyes, the room is dark but comfortable. She glances over and jolts. His eyes are already open.  
  
Nate runs a hand down her arm in mute apology. “Welcome back.”  
  
She covers his hand with her own, links their fingers together. “Missed you, big guy.”  
  
It isn’t quite a resolution between them, but it’s something.  
  
“Missed you too. I had nothing to take my mind off worr— off you.”  
  
That reminds her. She leans over Nate to grab the comic off the nightstand. “That’s what this is for. I got you this.”  
  
His eyes remain comfortably stuck on her cleavage until she pushes the comic in his face. Nate grabs her wrist and pulls it back until he can read the title. _“Grognak and the Jungle of_ … my favorite. How did you know?”  
  
She smirks down at him, tilting her head. “I have my ways.”  
  
The comic is forgotten as Kaelyn braces her forearms on either side of Nate’s head and leans over him. He drags a hand over her hip, his touch hot through the fabric, the corner of his mouth kicking up in that crooked smile she’s missed. She leans down to kiss him quietly. His lips are dry and warm and there is no first-kiss awkwardness, the contours of his mouth as familiar as her own.  
  
They barely break apart before she claims a second kiss, and a third. Nate presses his hand to the back of her head to keep her in place and with a surprised inhale their fourth kiss is deep and desperate, a wild, defiant thing lashing out against every lonely night.  
  
His breath hitches as she rediscovers that spot just beneath his jaw with her lips. A little thrill goes through her at the sound, smug that she can still affect him like this. Kaelyn kisses and nibbles her way down the side of his neck, breathing in his scent, gentle over the rash that never quite goes away. She brushes his hair out of the way and presses her mouth to the junction between his neck and shoulder. A shudder runs through Nate when her tongue darts out to taste him.  
  
His muscles bunch beneath her and she warns, “Don’t you dare.”  
  
But he is already gripping her waist and rolls her onto her back. Kaelyn runs her hands over his shoulders, down his stomach, feeling for any twinges that prove he’s in pain. Nate rests his elbows on either side of her head and leans down until their faces are inches apart. Despite the smug gleam in his eyes, his expression is so tender something catches in her chest. Kaelyn’s hands fall to his shoulders. She intends to halt him, but ends up steadying him as he leans down to kiss her. His soft exhale fans her face, and then there is no space between them at all.  
  
“Oh, _Nate,”_ she moans into his mouth.  
  
Every lonely night, burned away by the fire of his hands, sending a rush of heat to all the parts of her that are cold. She runs her palms over his body again and again, renewing faded memories. Starting at his neck, she follows the sharp line of his collarbone. Her fingers press into his broad shoulder, feeling every dip and valley of the muscles shifting under his skin. She skims down his chest, flicking his nipple along the way, to his ribs and finally to the spot where his waist arrows down to his hips.  
  
While their tongues clash, he nudges her knees apart and slides his thigh against her. Kaelyn gasps and tightens her grip on his shoulders, wanting him closer still. His hand skims down her side and over her hip to hitch her knee around his waist, and she arches up beneath him. Nate’s breaths are short and jagged and for a moment—pained.  
  
She loosens her hold immediately. “Hold it! Hold it!” Her heart thunders in her chest, her ears, her wrists. But that tiny pull of anxiety outweighs the heat coiling in her belly.  
  
Nate draws back to see her face. “Something wrong?”  
  
“Not wrong. It’s just that— Nate, you’re injured,” she protests. She toys with the edge of the bandages. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“No regrets,” he grins, but sobers at the worry he sees in her face. “You aren’t going to, if we’re careful.”  
  
Kaelyn’s eyes wander over his body, taking in the bandages that still pad his pectoral, the ginger way he holds himself up. But also the shape of his mouth, the jumping pulse in his throat, the feel of his flushed skin pressed against hers. “Then get on your back and let me do the work,” she tells him softly.  
  
He snorts. “Like that isn’t where I’d be anyway. But take your shirt off first.”  
  
It’s an acceptable compromise.  
  
They sit up, and Nate starts unbuttoning her shirt. Kaelyn helps out, works from the bottom as he works from the top, and he has undone two by the time she’s finished. Letting him push it off her shoulders, she chuckles when Nate slides a finger under her bra strap. It only takes a moment for her to unhook the clasps and then it too is on the floor.  
  
In return he lets her push him down onto the mattress. Kaelyn settles on top of him, her knees on either side of his hips, and rests her elbows on either side of his head. She takes a moment to make sure she is not pressing her weight down on him, then gasps as his hand finds her breast. Without any obstructing fabric, he is free to explore as he pleases, and it becomes his personal mission to leave her trembling, craving that slick friction.  
  
His hand skims lower, following the curve of her waist, making the muscles in her belly flutter. A moment’s distraction to remove  any remaining clothes, then she sits astride him, shivering when he rocks his hips upward. Kaelyn cups the side of Nate’s face, asks if he’s ready, and he nods fervently, holding her hand against his cheek.  
  
At first she is clumsy, out of practice, but his hands find her hips and guide her to the rhythm. Despite their years of intimacy, there is something new and strange and raw-edged about it. Maybe from running her hands over his skin, feeling his skin under her new calluses. Or perhaps from how very hyper-aware she is of his body, of the blood pulsing under his skin, now knowing the delicate balances of organic bodies.  
  
Kaelyn can only stare at her husband panting beneath her—alive.  
  
On his chin, hidden behind his stubble, is a scar she traces with her thumbnail. She drags her hand down his throat and over his chest, feeling his heart pound under her palm, and down to catch his free hand. He clutches at her as he arches upward. He’s close and so is she, and then he slips his fingers between her legs. She trembles and tumbles off the edge, and he soon follows.  
  
Kaelyn barely remembers not to flop onto Nate’s chest and instead slides, boneless, beside him. The world flutters down piece by piece, like playful motes fluttering on a light breeze, as the room rights itself. Hearts slow and trembles fade and breaths quieten.  
  
Nate pulls her flush against his side and strokes her hair. “You’re easy to please tonight.” A pause. “Don’t kill me for saying that.”  
  
Kaelyn buries her head in his shoulder. “It’s been a while for me.”  
  
There is something terrible and lonely lurking behind those words, but he runs his fingers along her back and whispers sweet nothings into her ear. She settles under his touch, but cannot drift into sleep until he murmurs that she’s safe and he’s safe. A tension she has not even noticed leaves her chest in a tendril of inky black and finally she can breathe. Darkness beckons, and she slides into it without fear.  
  
Something shakes her arm and she rouses. Nate leans down, his eyes glimmering in the darkness. It takes her several moments to realize he’s looming over her instead of lying beside her.  
  
“Hon? Hon, you need to see this.” His voice is tense, matching the hand that closes around her wrist. He leads her to the window.  
  
Kaelyn can feel the prickle on her lips before he pulls back the curtain. The sky is deep black and depthless, starless. Black as soot. Silhouettes waver along the horizon, and it’s difficult to tell where they end and the sky begins. An unseen breeze, high and reedy, rustles the dead maples and rattles the broken rooftops.  
  
And then a sickly green light flares from one point on the horizon. The clouds light up, suddenly granted depth, uneven spaces of gray edged with emerald.  
  
Then black.  
  
Kaelyn tenses. Waits. Her hand sweats on the small of Nate’s back. Seconds tick by and her nerves coil tighter with every moment of silence.  
  
A flash of green. And another. Somehow, it is more eerie to watch the light play in dead silence, without the boom of thunder to rattle the walls and rumble through her bones.  
  
“What the hell is that?”  
  
She’s already turning to find her boots. “That’s a radstorm. We need to get everyone into the vault. _Now.”_


	5. Chapter 5

The radstorm’s onset is unnaturally swift, buoyed by winds that are whipping into a gale. Even with Kaelyn and Codsworth splitting up to rouse their neighbors, fine glowing particles swirl on the air when everyone has emerged on the street with the barest of essentials. By the time they reach Vault 111, the air is thick with the metallic tang of radiation. Kaelyn’s pip-boy clicks on her wrist, a persistent _tak-tak-tak_ urging her to safety, to the point Marcy complains about the noise. Forked tongues of white-green lightning lunge downward, but it is the thunder that truly unnerving—more ominous, somehow, like great metal cables twisting apart.  
  
No matter whether one lives in 2077 or 2288, the slick feel of radiation never changes. The sharp panic of a reactor leak or the pervasive shock wave of a nuclear warhead’s deadly payload—in the end, it’s all too familiar.  
  
Kaelyn directs everyone to the elevator platform while she darts into the nearest prefab. Tapping one foot on the floor, she plugs the pip-boy’s cable into the control panel and primes the switch. Through the grimy window, the sky flashes green and rain sweeps north in thick roaring sheets. She bangs her fist down on the switch and runs outside, but the elevator is already descending.   
  
Two seconds of pure white-green light. Enough to burn wavering afterimages across her eyes. She can’t see the edge of the platform dock until her foot slips into empty air.  
  
A moment of complete vertigo; she doesn’t know how far she has to fall—  
  
Then her ankle rolls on contact, unprepared to hit the platform. The world lurches again, balancing on that precarious moment of weightlessness where she’s just beginning to tip over.  
  
Large hands—familiar hands—steady her, holding her weight before it bears down on her ankle. “Whoa! Easy there.” Nate rearranges her so she’s tucked under his arm. “You all right?”  
  
Kaelyn carefully stretches and flexes her ankle, feeling the sharp twinge of strained muscles. Nothing to be done for it now. “Fine.”  
  
The elevator, as always, crawls on its hydraulics. That leaves far too much time to think. There’s a dark patch under Sturges’ foot that Kaelyn doesn’t think is rust, and she presses her head to Nate’s chest to count his heartbeat. Slides her fingers under the hem of his shirt to feel the warm skin at his hip. He ducks his head to rest his chin on her hair.  
  
Green particles glow softly as they drift down while thunder rolls, low and echoing, down the hole. By the time the elevator hits the bottom of the shaft, rain drums down with the force of fists, and Sanctuary’s residents are huddled under jackets, drenched and shivering.  
  
The grate slides up, permitting them entrance to the vault. The banner looms overhead like a jeer. _Welcome Home._  
  
There’s no escaping Vault 111, evidently.  
  
Kaelyn wonders what Nate is thinking, but it’s too dark to make out anything more than the profile of his nose and the green-black glimmer of his eyes.  
  
Vault 111 is as cold and unfeeling as the staff who once ran it. No, that isn’t quite true. They’d had feelings; they just hadn’t _cared_. It is far colder than it was outside, an immortal chill that makes Kaelyn’s head ache and her nose run. The ghostly hiss of a pressurizing pod rings in her ears. A mechanical countdown lilting in the background.   
  
_Procedure complete in five..._  
  
She nearly trips over a skeleton while limping her way to the interior vault door controls—the very corpse she’d claimed her pip-boy from. Nate rests a hand at the small of her back as the warning alarms flash and buzz. The great gear slots into place with a resonant boom, lower-pitched than thunder. The catwalk retracts, and the rattling of machinery fades away to an eerie silence. The light on the vault door switches from green to red. They are sealed in.  
  
Despite the knowledge that the vault offers security from radiation, Kaelyn feels like a worm trapped in a glass jar.  
  
It isn’t so different than before, the way her neighbors huddle in small clumps, peering about with wary curiosity. What stands out, however, is the open mistrust in the slant of their shoulders, in the whites of their eyes, despite having taken shelter in the vault before.  
  
“You’re still sure we’re the only things down here?” Preston asks, eying the dim hallway. His voice resonates oddly off the fusion of stone and metal encasing the chamber. He asks every time.  
  
Kaelyn limps to the front of the procession and takes the left-most corridor. She keeps a hand on Deliverer’s grip where it is holstered on her thigh, just in case. “I’ve only ever found radroaches.”   
  
They plunge into shape-filled darkness. Somehow, the lights seem dimmer than they were before, with shadows creeping along bulkheads   
  
What if she never opened Nate’s cryopod? What if she’d gone the rest of her life, however short it will be, without ever stepping foot in that prison of ice and stone and wires? Even now, the horror of it freezes her stomach.  
  
Bullet holes along the wall and floor provide an uneven trail to splattered radroach remains. Preston had ribbed her good-naturedly about it last time they were down here—‘You don’t have to empty a magazine into them, you know.’ This time it’s Nate beside her, and he doesn’t laugh as he tracks the wild bullet spray.  
  
“What the hell are those? Giant cockroaches?”  
  
Right. Another thing to explain. “Radroaches,” she answers. “There isn’t enough bug spray in the world to kill them now.”  
  
“These look more recent than the other bodies.” Nate prods a bent wing with his toe. Then his eyes cut up to her. “You did this, didn’t you?”  
  
She can only nod.  
  
Thankfully, the facility is small and it doesn’t take long to reach the decrepit mess hall with its conjoining dormitory. A damp stench pervades the room, most pungent near the tepid puddles huddling in corners.  
  
Sturges immediately pokes around the terminal and its surrounds for something to tinker with. Preston rights a seat at the table for Mama Murphy before checking the barracks are clear. Codsworth goes on an impromptu cleaning blitz to make the room, in his own words, habitable, and complains bitterly about the lack of Abraxo.  
  
Nate herds Kaelyn to the nearest chair and exerts just enough pressure to get her backside planted on the seat. “Let’s check out this ankle of yours. Don’t look at me like that, honey. I’ve seen you limping.” Before searching for a first aid kit, he gives her a stern look. “Stay put.”  
  
Sturges chuckles. “It’s like he knows you or something.”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t dignify with a response, and instead sticks to Codsworth’s sympathy.  
  
When Nate returns victorious, he pulls up a seat and lifts her foot into his lap. Without an ice pack, the best he can do is bandage her ankle. His careful attention cannot be solely explained by the matching rings on their fingers or the way his thumb smooths along her calf.   
  
When Jun drops a canister of water and Nate doesn’t dare look up—while Kaelyn startles, every nerve alight to find the threat—she thinks she understands why.  
  
“With luck, we might not have to amputate,” he says. She knows him too well to not notice the forced note of cheer in his tone.   
  
Distractions can be wonderful things.  
  
Codsworth fusses over both Kaelyn and Nate until they retreat to one of the least moldy mattresses to appease him. Nate pulls her so her back fits against his chest, and the tense bow of his shoulders matches hers. Dogmeat curls up at their feet. No matter how Kaelyn presses against them both, her hands and feet remain cold. Hours pass in a rustle of cards, a groan of bedsprings, and other ambient noises of a decrepit vault. At some point the others retire as well, while the bright flame of Codsworth’s jet propulsion throws swaying sheets of light through the doorway. Marcy claims a mattress in the corner and tugs Jun down beside her until they’re comfortably entwined.  
  
Neither Kaelyn or Nate sleep. He gives up any pretense after the fifth time he jabs the back of her thigh with his knee, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Kaelyn is too tired to sleep, and her eyelids itch.  
  
According to her pip-boy, it is 6:19am. Codsworth’s internal chronometer is in agreement, because he’s ready with breakfast: stale Fancy Lads and cold water.  
  
“How long do these storms last for, and how bad do they get?” Nate asks as he pulls a chair upright and sits backwards, crossing his forearms on the backrest.  
  
Kaelyn welcomes the distraction from shredding her cake into crumbs. Somehow Codsworth managed to warm it up. “Couple of hours, usually. This one looked worse than normal. We’ll give it a day or so, just be sure.”  
  
He leans forward. “You said the storms carry radiation.”  
  
“That’s right. They usually blow in from the Glowing Sea. You... you remember the bomb we saw go off?”  
  
It’s a needless question and they both know it.  
  
“Can’t forget something like that. I keep replaying that moment, over and over.” He runs a hand over his face. From behind it, he admits, “I can still see the shock wave heading right for us.”  
  
So can she. They’d been standing on the platform, hearing desperate shouts to get the elevator moving _now_ —  
  
Kaelyn stretches her hand across the table to touch his wrist. “The Glowing Sea is ground zero. It’s a hellhole. That’s where radstorms come from.”  
  
Despite the encroaching day, it feels darker than ever in this dingy room. No matter how absurd it is, logically, to expect the sounds of a storm to travel several hundred feet below ground to a radiation-proof vault, Kaelyn finds herself cocking her head. Straining to determine whether a shuddering rumble isthunder or merely the reactor humming.  
  
Codsworth made decent headway through his cleaning project during the night, and is now arranging their supplies on parts of the kitchenette counter as the others wake up.  
  
“This is it?” Marcy demands at their meager fare for breakfast.  
  
“We have to ration what we’ve got,” Preston says as he drops into a nearby seat.  
  
“You’re saying you didn’t bring enough food?”  
  
Kaelyn has to wonder if history is repeating in Vault 111. The thought is too grim to be truly idle.  
  
“Let’s not bite each others heads off,” Sturges says. “We’ve only been down here for, what, five hours? The storm’ll pass soon enough. While we may be hungry, we won’t be glowing green.”  
  
Marcy subsides with a scowl, which softens when Jun touches her wrist and murmurs something only she can hear.  
  
Nate runs a hand through his hair, snagging in several tangles they’d made earlier in the night, then secures it in a sloppy bun. Something seems to jog his memory, and he cocks his head on the side. “How’d your mission go? Never had a chance to ask earlier.”  
  
Kaelyn shrugs, the motion half-hearted. “Fine.” If she’d been injured, he would have found out earlier.  
  
Nate looks to Preston, who explains, “We were able to call in an artillery strike on the raiders’ base and mopped up the rest.”  
  
Nate’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline. “That would make your job a hell of lot easier. Where on earth did you get your hands on artillery?”  
  
“Minutemen specialty,” Preston answers with a grin. “It’s probably not like what you had before the Great War, but it gets the job done.”  
  
Kaelyn leaves the two men to talk shop and digs through footlockers. She finds two decks of cards and spreads them out on a dry section of floor, a swirling mural of paper tiles in white, red and black. Between them she manages to rescue enough undamaged cards to make a full deck save for a two of spades. Mama Murphy regales them with stories from her time as the fiercest card shark south of Goodneighbor.  
  
“Right,” Sturges drawls. “You know there are ghouls in Goodneighbor who were alive before the Great War. Surely any one of them would remember an infamous card shark like you? If being a mean hand at cards was ever anything more than a figment of your imagination.”  
  
Some quiet instinct makes Kaelyn lift her head and scan the room. Codsworth hums as he combats the mess in the tiny bathroom; Marcy guards Jun while he naps, her hand resting protectively on his back; Preston dismantles his laser musket at the table for cleaning; and Mama Murphy, who commandeered the deck, challenges Sturges to a game.  
  
No Nate.  
  
Kaelyn is on her feet and out the door before anyone can even ask her what’s wrong. She checks Deliverer is loaded at her hip. Dogmeat lopes to the bend in the corridor, his nose twitching over the floor, and looks over his shoulder at her.   
  
She knows, from the cold in her gut, where that corridor leads. Instead, she tilts her head in the opposite direction. “Come on, buddy. Maybe he went this way.”  
  
Dogmeat whistles through his nose but follows her. Kaelyn searches room after room, alert for both scuttling radroaches and her wayward husband. Nothing. The click of Dogmeat’s nails makes the back of her neck prickle. When they reach the vacant exit zone, she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. The weight in her chest grows heavier and colder.   
  
It’s inevitable that she is pulled to the cryogenic array again. To the spot where she lost Shaun—twice. To the spot where she lost Nate. And then somehow got him back. Bay C remains sepulchral, with cables twisting out of each pod like strings controlling a marionette, severed long ago by the Institute’s technicians.  
  
Nate has found the terminal hooked into the array and gained access; there was evidently no point password protecting a public monitoring terminal.  
  
Pod by pod, he checks the occupant status and door controls. By the last row in the chamber, his professional mask is frayed and unraveling fast. He makes a frustrated noise when the panel fizzles out yet again and chirps _unable to comply_ and he smacks the button a second time. Closing his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose and draws in a deep breath. When his hand falls away, the cracks have smoothed over. If the line of his mouth is harsher than it was before and his eyes flatter, it doesn’t need to be mentioned.  
  
Kaelyn waits with her back to a wall, arms wrapped tight around her ribs, shoulders hunched like a lonely bird perched in the rain. Dogmeat trots over to sit by Nate’s feet; he gives gives the dog an absent scratch without looking down. Kaelyn is torn between awe at his grim determination and grief for his inevitable disappointment. But it says something about him, that he is willing to carry this hurt for the rest of his life for even the slightest chance that he can wring even just one more survivor out of the array. And here she is, just shivering on the sidelines, too pathetic to take the risk herself.  
  
At last he glances her way. “Our neighbors… I thought there had to be something we can do for them. We can’t be the only survivors, right?”  
  
“Nate.”  
  
He turns away sharply, away from her compassion, away from her defeat. “I need to know for sure.”  
  
If Nate managed to survive despite Kellogg’s efforts, maybe others did as well.  
  
She wants to hope. She really does.  
  
Deep down, she knows there’s no way to override a life support shut down from inside one of the pods.  
  
Nate slumps in front of Mr Russell’s cold coffin, shivering and looking so very small. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. So many civilians dead, and for what?” His last words slit the air, an ice-sharp razor.  
  
Kaelyn makes her way to him. Pulls his fists away from his eyes and wishes in this moment she can warm his hands between her own. “I’m sorry, hon. I am so sorry.”  
  
His eyes, dark and exhausted, flick past her to the cryopod that had contained her for two hundred and ten years. “You’ve changed.”  
  
She drops their hands.  
  
That’s the heart of it—that right now Nate looks at her expecting to see the lawyer he married. The Commonwealth hasn’t sunk its claws into him yet, and it terrifies her that it’s only a matter of time. Already they are poised, wicked talons made from rust and radiation, just piercing his skin.  
  
“Hey, hey. I didn’t mean it as an indictment.”  
  
She looks away, lip curling. “The Commonwealth does things to you.”  
  
His hands, half-stretched out to her, curl in on themselves. His eyes are shadowed with foreign things. “Yeah, when you say things like that, I get worried.”  
  
“I don’t know what to tell you, Nate.”  
  
“I don’t know what I’m looking for here. Just—” He turns to the pod with dried blood and melted ice and the .44 round lodged in the backrest. “I saw the writing on the wall. I knew we were on the brink of war. But that year with you and— I fooled myself into thinking that everything would be all right. That we would be safe in Sanctuary Hills, even if other places were torn up by fighting. I never could have predicted _this_.” A sweep of his arm encompasses the two open cryopods, the bloodstains on the floor—and her.  
  
In the quiet that descends, Kaelyn can hear Shaun’s fearful cries as he was carried away by the Institute technician, and she can hear her son’s last wheezing breaths. “None of us could have. Sometimes it feels too absurd to be true. But that just means it’s too absurd to be false.”  
  
“I keep thinking that there must have been something I could have done. I could have saved Shaun. I let civilian life make me slow.”  
  
She wavers, then pads closer on soft feet. “I watched it happen, Nate, and there’s nothing you could have done. Shaun belonged to the Institute the moment they decided to acquire him.”  
  
Nate looks at her, and she wonders what he sees. Then he looks down. “I miss him.”  
  
Kaelyn opens her mouth—and her agreement catches in her chest. She cannot honestly say that she misses being treated like a peon, or the overbright sterile halls, or the wary disdain the Directorate threw at her. What she misses, she realizes, is what they were supposed to have: soft hugs and easy banter and bedtimes stories. “I know.”   
  
She turns on a heel so he can’t see her face and a flash of pain shoots up her leg.  
  
Catching her elbow, Nate frowns as he steadies her. “You need to get off that foot. Come on.”  
  
Kaelyn concedes to the logic of that if nothing else, and they return to the mess. Sensing she needs some time to herself, Nate makes himself scarce. She flicks through the tabs on her pip-boy, counts off the minutes, wonders how much longer they will be confined to the vault. Codsworth prepares lunch, but it’s sawdust in her mouth.   
  
Preston and Mama Murphy lure Sturges into another card game; some local descendant of what might have once been called poker. Kaelyn watches without absorbing the rules, the numbers passing in a blur until she shifts in her seat, unable to stay put. Glancing around, she notices the nearest exit and casually makes her way to poke around the shelf next to it. She slips out of the mess hall, Dogmeat a tawny shadow at her feet, while Nate and Codsworth investigate the recreation terminal and everyone else is otherwise occupied. She drifts down the hallway, as quick and as quiet as she can manage.  
  
Bay C again.  
  
She sits on the top step and fists her hands in her hair. Her ankle throbs, but it is a distant concern of a body she barely feels.  When the tears come, she fights them viciously, choking them back until she can’t breathe.  
  
Dogmeat whines and drags his paw down Kaelyn’s leg.  
  
She pulls away. “Stop that.”  
  
He looks up at her, eyes shining green in the dim lighting, and scratches her leg again.  
  
“What, Dogmeat?” she snaps. “I don’t have any food for you.”  
  
With another whine, he circles around her once and then paces away, looking back over his shoulder with big brown eyes.  
  
That’s when she realizes what Dogmeat wants: to herd her away from the chamber. “Fine, _fine_.”  
  
Her restless feet retrace her initial path through the facility, but the sound of Dogmeat’s claws clicking against the floor alleviates the oppressive silence. She keeps her gaze low when they pass an observation window to another bay of cryopods. Every buzz of fluctuating power conduits has her hand tracking towards her pistol, convinced radroaches will scuttle down the walls.  
  
In the Overseer’s office, a flash of blue on the far wall catches her eye. That massive rifle—the cryo-something—still sits in its case, sealed and safe. In all honesty, it isn’t so much the gun as much as the lock that draws her across the room, barely sparing a glance for the Overseer’s clean-picked bones along the way. Kaelyn brushes her fingers over the dent in the case where she’d tried to break the lid open so long ago. At the time, any kind of lock was beyond her ability to pick. She’d been too shell shocked to think, besides.   
  
Now she surveys it with a consideration that would do Valentine proud. Pre-war locks can be surprisingly sturdy, and this one is more than most; despite being tarnished, it has not rusted. It occurs to her that the key should be around here somewhere; if the weapon wasn’t claimed in the mutiny, then the Overseer must have kept the key safe. But the idea of picking amongst these old bones once more makes her stomach clench.  
  
This lock is too fine to fit a screwdriver. Kaelyn digs around for a second bobby pin and gets to work. The lock is exceedingly difficult to crack, the tumblers so slight and sensitive and stubborn even with her deft hands. First they refuse to click into place, and then refuse to stay there when she moves on. But she’s perversely glad for continual setbacks. The longer this lock keeps her occupied, the better.  
  
A clatter behind her. Kaelyn jumps; bends the bobby pin. Curses quietly under her breath.  
  
“There you are.” Nate ambles to the office and leans against the security gate. “What are you up to?”  
  
It isn’t the question he wants to ask, but it’s the only one she’ll answer. “Trying to get this lock open.”  
  
“Since when could you pick locks? Is there something you’ve been keeping from me all these years? How you really made the money to pay off your degree?”  
  
It isn’t nearly as drastic as some of her other newly-learned skills. “It’s not illegal if the owner is dead and there’s no government left.”  
  
“Hmm. Point taken. You really want that gun?” He steps beside her to peer into the case. “Looks like a custom make. High tech; probably needs fusion cells. Wonder what it’s doing down here?”  
  
Kaelyn turns over the bent bobby pin and tries to straighten it between her teeth. “It’s more for something to do than anything else. The Overseer made the gun. Something for him to do in between monitoring us, I suppose.”  
  
Nate’s hands are now fists against his ribs. “Just what the hell happened down here?”  
  
“Vault-Tec gave them limited supplies. When they ran out, the Overseer refused to open the vault to investigate the surface, and security mutinied against the scientists.” Kaelyn jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “That’s the Overseer there. You can read the logs on his terminal, if you want to know more.”  
  
If anyone has the right to know, it’s the only other survivor of Vault 111.  
  
Kaelyn returns to the lock and starts again. Behind her, the sound of a skeleton being delicately shuffled out of the way, then the _clack-clack-clack_ of keyboard typing.  
  
And then, quiet and sharp and seething: “Those _bastards_. I trusted them with your life and with Shaun’s—” He breaks off.  
  
Kaelyn bows her head. “It all happened too fast for us to realize anything was wrong. I suppose Vault-Tec was counting on confusion when the bombs dropped.”  
  
“Makes sense most people would be easy to herd with simple instructions.” Nate exhales once, sharp. “Guess it was all too good to be true.”   
  
Padding on soft feet, Kaelyn swivels the chair so he faces her. Pulling his chin up with gentle fingers, she says, “I know, hon. I know.”  
  
“Experiments on civilians. How could they do this to us and think they were doing us a favor?”  
  
She traces her thumb over his brow, smoothing out the furrows that have gathered. “It makes me angry, too. So, so angry. I know being on the surface when the bomb hit would have been worse than this, but did they have to lie to us?”  
  
Nate doesn’t have an answer to give her. He pulls her into his lap and they commiserate in silence, while he slowly spins the chair with one foot.  
  
She buries her head in his shoulder. “I did everything I could, and it wasn’t enough.” Shaun, Kellogg, High Rise, Glory, Liam Binet. How many people has she watched die, without a victory to justify the bodies? The only satisfaction she’s found has been the light extinguishing in Kellogg’s eyes and the Institute going up in flames. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”  
  
A thin thread of humor, trying to lighten the mood. “Caring for your wounded but still handsome husband, clearly.”  
  
“Nate, I’m serious.”  
  
“So am I. Or are you saying I’m not handsome?”  
  
“Nate—” She stands, frustrated, but he catches her arm.  
  
He gentles when he sees her face, changes whatever he is about to say. “You’ve been through hell, huh?”  
  
That startles a bark of laughter out of her, as dry and stale as crumbling leaves, which quickly becomes a sob. “You don’t know the half of it.”  
  
Nate squeezes her arm.  
  
“I only wanted—” she halts herself, recognizing the futility of self-pity. “It doesn’t matter any more. None of it matters.”  
  
“Look, I know you might not be ready to talk about it, but when you are? I’m here.”  
  
She doesn’t answer save for nuzzling her forehead into his neck. She cups his cheek. “I do know one thing, though: from where I’m standing, you being alive at all is too good to be true.”  
  
Lifting one eyebrow, he drawls, “I may be moderately stupendous.”  
  
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘the luckiest man in the Commonwealth’.”  
  
“That too.” He turns his head to kiss her palm, then rises to his feet and catches her hand in his own. “Let’s head back.”  
  
She still hates the damn vault, and she’s still overtired, but maybe a wound has been lanced. Whether it’s bandaged and heals properly remains to be seen.  
  
Preston looks relieved when they return to the mess. “You two are really going stir crazy, aren’t you? I was thinking we could crack the vault open and see what the surface is like.”  
  
Everyone is eager enough to leave Vault 111 that not even the risk of rads can damage the sudden buoyed mood. Kaelyn unseals the vault like she did so long ago, and this time the machinery groans but doesn’t stick from disuse.  
  
She looks back one more time. From the catwalk, she can see right down the corridor to Bay C. See the spot where Shaun died.  
  
“Honey?”  
  
There’s no need for Nate to carry this burden too. Knowing won’t help him.  
  
She turns away. “Let’s go. I’m done with this place.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing this chapter!

The world is slick and slimy from irradiated rain. Hard packed clay has been churned to a mud that sucks at their boots. Rainwater has sliced eroded streams out of the slope, leaving behind increasingly worn gouges. Nearby patches of grass have been flattened. Dank smells cut the air, rain and leaves and rot, growing stronger the closer they get to the engorged creek. It has swelled to an alarming height, on the cusp of breaking its banks.  
  
Dogmeat stops, head raised, nose twitching. His ears prick forward, then he takes off. The boards on the footbridge wobble as he runs over them, then he rounds the white picket fence in a flash of his tail and vanishes.  
  
In the distance, someone calls, “Hello the house!”  
  
“I say! Is that Mr Valentine?” Codsworth asks.  
  
Kaelyn perks up, her fatigue somewhat alleviated. “Sounds like.” She quickens her step and, when Nate keeps pace with her, watching with a curious expression, she realizes that this meeting could go very poorly again without some proper warning. She pulls Nate to a halt. “Hon, don’t freak out when you see Nick. He’s a synth—an older model. All mechanical parts, and he’s a little worn around the edges. But he’s a good man, and he investigated Shaun’s case when no one else would.”  
  
A tiny furrow forms between Nate’s eyebrows, as if he’s trying to imagine it. “So he’s a robot? Like Codsworth?”  
  
“He’s as good as human.” It isn’t her place to divulge Valentine’s secrets. Taking Nate’s hands, she runs her thumbs over his knuckles. “It’s ultimately your call, but Nick’s the best friend I have out here. I’m only asking that you give him a chance.”  
  
“And he helped find Shaun?” Nate’s voice almost remains even when he says their son’s name. “Then I guess I owe him on two counts—for Shaun and for you. I want to meet this guy.”  
  
Valentine crouches on the sidewalk, scratching Dogmeat’s belly while the dog squirms on his back with his tongue lolling. Even with forewarning, Nate starts when they get close enough to see Valentine’s face under the brim of his fedora. Nate’s fingers tighten around hers. Luckily, Preston takes a moment to greet Valentine with a quick handshake, and it gives Nate enough time to compose his expression.  
  
Valentine looks up with a smile at their approach. “There she is! Wondered if I took a wrong turn somewhere and wound up in a ghost town.”  
  
Kaelyn pulls him into a hug. “We rode out the radstorm in the vault. Have you been here lo—wait.” Under her hands his coat is damp. “Don’t tell me you traveled through that?”  
  
“Miserable weather, but at least most things that might’ve been tempted to take a snap at me were more miserable and holed up somewhere dry. Being radiation proof helps.”  
  
She is not comforted. “Just be careful out there, all right?”  
  
His forehead contorts in a way that would be cocking an eyebrow, if he had one. “Could always use a partner, you know. It’s been awful lonely out there with just the old processor for company.”  
  
What surprises her is just how much she wants to agree so they can wander the ’Wealth again. It doesn’t matter much where; Valentine never has a shortage of cases to carry them across the Commonwealth. The world’s most unlikely duo: a cop and lawyer two hundred years out of time. Both relics of a justice system that no longer exists.

Instead, she says, “I’ll bet.” In another time, she might have thrown in a joke: _I can see why you you_ _’d want me. I’m one of a kind_.  
  
Nate clears his throat.  
  
“So there’s your better half.” Valentine looks him over and nods to himself. “Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Name’s Valentine. Nick Valentine.”  
  
Nate holds out his hand. “Prescott. Nate Prescott.”  
  
Valentine holds out his left hand instead, keeping his steel hand firmly entrenched in his pocket. There’s an awkward moment where Nate adjusts, but their handshake is amiable enough. Even if he can’t stop staring.  
  
“I’ve heard a few things about you,” Valentine says. “Some of it was even good. I promise.”  
  
“Oh, I see how it is.” Nate loops an arm around Kaelyn’s shoulders and pulls her against him. “You told the story about the time you tried to murder me with peppers, didn’t you?”  
  
“I didn’t, and I didn’t.” She reaches around to pat his arm. “Don’t worry, the shreds of your dignity are safe with me.”  
  
Valentine folds his arms and taps one foot on the ground. “Attempted murder, huh? Is there anything you’d like to say to me?”  
  
“I exercise the right to remain silent, detective.”  
  
Nate cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowed, and if not for his sober expression it would be endearing. “Something looks familiar about you.”  
  
“I helped your dame pull you outta the vault,” Valentine answers. “Not surprised you don’t remember much of that. You’re looking better than you were.”  
  
“It’s nice not having a hole in my chest any more.”  
  
And then Valentine chuckles and the corner of Nate’s mouth kicks up, and Kaelyn feels a little lighter than she did before. They spend the day cleaning up water damage, and by the time they’re finished there isn’t a dry towel left in Sanctuary.

Codsworth rounds his charges up for dinner and while Valentine doesn’t partake of the food, he does sit at the table and tease Codsworth about taking orders. He can’t get anything but a cheery denial out of the robot. It’s questionable whether Codsworth is feigning ignorance or simply running along the familiar boundaries of his programming.  
  
When Nate can hardly hold his eyes open, Valentine excuses himself even though Kaelyn offers him the couch. She and Nate shuffle to bed, and exhaustion pulls them both under.  
  
When Kaelyn wakes, something feels off. And it isn’t because Dogmeat has yet again pushed her head off the pillow to curl up on it. Spitting out a mouthful of fur, she rolls away.  
  
Nate is doing push ups in the hallway, shirtless and working up a sweat, an occasional grunt of exertion echoing off the walls. His movements are strong and steady, without any twinges of pain. It takes her a moment to realize why, besides the obvious, the image is so wrong. He is completely bare chested, without the bandages that have become a familiar fixture around his torso.  
  
Finishing the set, he sits up and brushes his hands on his pants, notices the tense figure of his wife in the doorway. “Morning, hon.”  
  
“Nate…”  
  
He rises to his considerable height in one fluid movement, then ducks down to kiss the side of her neck. “Relax, hon. I’ve been training every morning since you left. Getting back into shape.”  
  
He smells wonderfully sweaty. She bites down a protest and purses her lips. Turns her face to the side when he tries to kiss her again, and presses a hand to his breastbone. That pulls him up short. She skims westward to the angry red welt, closed over and lumpy where the stitches used to be, tiny stippling scars orbiting the main wound. She circles around him to inspect the exit wound. This one is considerably more impressive, almost twice the size but also closed over. The stimpaks did their job, no doubt about it.  
  
“How are you feeling?” she asks.  
  
Nate’s heavy exhale borders on a sigh. “It still pulls in my chest when I move too fast, but all in all it could be worse.”  
  
A far more fortunate prognosis than it could have been. A disbelieving relief buoys her chest, lighter than air. _He_ _’s alive._  
  
Kaelyn peers around his shoulder. “Okay. We can work with this. Just take it slow, big guy. You’ve been so patient through all this. Just hold on for a little longer.”  
  
He half-turns, balling his shirt in his hands, and the veins in his arms bulge. “I’m done with feeling useless.”  
  
“You’ve been healing, Nate. That’s going to take time. No one’s holding your lack of healing powers against you. And there’s a lot to adjust to on top of your recovery.”  
  
His eyes dart over her face, searching for something. What, she doesn’t know. “I don’t like the thought of you out there where I can’t follow, risking your life.”  
  
Closing the distance between them, Kaelyn leans up on the balls of her feet until their mouths are inches apart and holds his face in her hands. She runs her thumb over his cheekbone. “Let me protect you.”  
  
Nate presses his forehead against hers. His fingers slide across her shoulders, over the reedy pulse in her neck, to tangle in her short hair. Unable to help herself, Kaelyn kisses him. While it’s a small, fragile thing, he anchors himself to her as a man overboard clings to a rock jutting out of the sea. Something shifts, ignites, and his hands tighten their hold to deepen their kiss—  
  
“I am pleased to inform you that the razorgrain crops are— ah! My apologies, mum, sir. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?” Codsworth floats in the corridor, his appendages twisting, looking so very sheepish.  
  
“Codsworth, buddy, do we have any steak? Because I would love some steak sandwiches for lunch.” Nate barely waits for Codsworth to turn away before he pushes her into the bedroom and swoops down to reclaim her mouth.  
  
It is far from the last Nate has to say on the subject, however. A few days later, Kaelyn rounds the corner to their bedroom and stops dead. Nate sits on his heels in front of her weapon trunk. The weapon trunk that is cracked wide open, exposing its grim cargo.  
  
“Careful with those.”  
  
“I _do_ know how to handle a gun, honey.” His tone is rather mild, all things considered.  
  
She closes her eyes and runs a hand over her face. “Sorry. You’re right. I’m just not used to someone else rifling through my personal weapons cache.”  
  
“Speaking of rifles.” He points to her laser musket. “Just how good are you with this? And how does it even fire?”  
  
Kaelyn drops to her knees beside him and shows him how to crank the handle to charge a single blast and where a fusion cell could be loaded. When he toys with a piece of duct tape, she smacks his hand away.  
  
“At least it’s easy to repair?” he offers.  
  
Nate will not be satisfied until he’s inspected every weapon she owns. He marvels at her Railway Rifle, hefting its considerable weight in his hands, torn between awe and incredulity. “I have never seen anything like this before.”  
  
She rescues the rifle from his grasp. She doesn’t fail to notice how he tracks her movements, his hands half-raised, assessing whether she can bear its weight. She can. “A friend made this for me. It shoots railway spikes.”  
  
“Railway spikes?” Incredulity wins. “Damn. That’s either creative or desperate.”  
  
_Creative_ and _desperate_ are two words that sum up the Railroad well. “Both, really.”  
  
Tucked away in a corner at the bottom of the trunk lies a 10mm pistol. The first weapon she’d ever killed with, taken from the Overseer in Vault 111. “You’ll need a gun out here.” Best to start small, until he’s ready to handle a rifle again.  
  
She offers the pistol to him.  
  
Nate hesitates. He watches the pistol with dark eyes, almost mesmerized.  
  
“Hon?”  
  
“It’s just— when I pick this up, there’s no going back. I wanted to put my soldiering days behind me.”  
  
Kaelyn softens and pulls the gun back an inch. “Oh, honey. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I didn’t have a choice, and I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. I can be strong enough for us both if I have to.”  
  
He smiles, an unhappy thing that is so, so tender. “You don’t have to be. It isn’t your job to shoulder this burden for me.”  
  
“It has always been my job to look after you. The only difference now is how I can do that.”  
  
Something flits over Nate’s face, too fast to catch. He looks between her and the gun one more time and his expression hardens. Reaching out, he closes his fingers around the pistol’s grip.  
  
And that’s how they end up in the woods behind the house, setting up targets in the crude firing range Preston marked out months ago.  
  
Kaelyn is nervous, she’s surprised to discover, under her husband’s assessing gaze. She shifts her stance once, twice, trying to remember every lesson that has become habit. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, elbows tucked in. She sights down the scope to the target, and adjusts her aim. Slipping a finger inside the trigger guard, she tries to ignore the prickle at the back of her neck. A soldier’s eyes track her every twitch.  
  
What will he think if she misses?  
  
What will he think if she _hits?_  
  
She fires. The laser musket doesn’t have the recoil of traditional rifles, nor the weight, and her aim is true.  
  
“Again.”  
  
Kaelyn cranks the handle and fires again and again until Nate is satisfied.

At the end of the range the target flutters, mere fragments haloed in red-gray particles that hang in thick clouds like dust. Kaelyn does not look at Nate, or at the musket radiating heat in her hands. He steps closer and she checks that the musket is safely out of the way.  
  
“All right, you’ve convinced me.” His hands cover her own, easily dwarfing them, large and warm and safe. She can feel the calluses on his palms rough against her knuckles. He chuckles.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“You look how I felt when I told you I signed on for my ’71 tour.” Then he sobers. “I never told you anything, really, about my time in the army, because I didn’t think you could understand. But now...”  
  
Kaelyn suspects she knows what he means. “Back then, I couldn’t have.”  
  
“You don’t have to worry about what I’ll think of you.” Nate waits until she looks up at him. “If this is what’s kept you alive, then I can only be glad.”  
  
“ _Glad?_ _”_ she repeats, dumbfounded. “I’ve killed people, Nate.”  
  
His lip curls up, a flash of teeth, humorless. “Yes, well. You know I can’t judge in that regard.”  
  
It’s no secret what being a soldier entails, especially for one as decorated as Nate, but before the Great War it was an abstract awareness she swept to the periphery. She never lingered on the question of how her husband, with his gentle hands and eager laugh and silly expressions, could kill on demand. _Has_ killed on demand. Now this ugly truth sits between them. And she understands, more than she likes, how easy it is to follow orders. To place your trust and your thoughts in someone else’s hands and let them call the shots, even when you’re uncertain.

Especially when you’re uncertain.  
  
“I just—” she sighs, short and soft. “Never wanted to be this. Never wanted you to see me like this.”  
  
“Why? Because a good person doesn’t shoot people? It’s not that simple and it never has been.”  
  
She resets the target and retreats behind Nate, calling Dogmeat to sit at her feet.  
  
“Your turn.”  
  
He checks the coast is clear and loads the magazine. Checks again that nobody has wandered into his line of fire before thumbing off the safety and raising the pistol. In his hands it sits with a practiced ease, and he settles into a ready stance.  
  
His first shot is decent. Kaelyn only gave him a single clip, unwilling to waste bullets—Deacon is truthful about the price of ammo, if nothing else—as well as wanting a hard limit on their shooting session. So he makes every shot count. By the end the bullet holes are clustered in a tighter circle closer to the target’s center. Nate is not particularly pleased, but neither is he surprised.  
  
That night over dinner, he says, “I’m going to need my own weapons.”  
  
“We’ll get you sorted. Should be another trader caravan stopping by any day now.”  
  
And there is, the very next morning. Trashcan Carla hasn’t stopped by since the Institute rebellion, but the trader who stepped up to fill the gap goes by the name of Ferdinand and his wares are almost as good. With a few delicate inquiries, he reveals his full weapons stock, which includes some high-end pieces a cut above the usual pipe rifles. Nate examines and discards a number of rifles, ignoring the trader’s offended huff. He selects a laser rifle and half the stock of fusion cells, then Kaelyn haggles the price down to something more affordable. Despite the trader’s look of disgust at their agreed-upon stack of caps, their parting handshake is amiable enough.  
  
That’s when Valentine finds them, tipping his hat in their direction. “Morning, lovebirds. Stocking up?”  
  
Nate hefts his new rifle. “You could say that.”  
  
“How about we take you around the Commonwealth? See the sights.” Valentine adds in a lower tone, “Such as they are.”  
  
“I, for one, am ready to get out of here. What about you, hon?”  
  
Kaelyn folds her hands over her stomach, keeps her voice even. “It’s your call. I don’t have anywhere to be.”  
  
She knows his answer before he even opens his mouth.

“Great! Welcome aboard, mister.” Valentine says, “If we hustle, we might make it to Diamond City before nightfall. Without that wreck holding the bridge over the river, we’ll need to take a detour.”  
  
“That’s right. We’ll have to find one of the bridges that still stand.” Kaelyn drums her fingers against her thigh, trying to keep her thoughts from turning to the reason why two of the bridges are gone. “Better to go cross-country then head into the city closest to the bridge.”  
  
Nate raises an eyebrow. “Dangerous in Boston, huh?”  
  
“Lots of cover, lots of rubble, lots of enemies lurking about.” Even after Deacon taught her to scope out a street, to find sniper havens, she still feels an itch between her shoulder blades every moment she spends in Boston. “Not that going through the country is necessarily safer, but you can’t get boxed in like you can in the streets.”  
  
Nate nods, his eyes dark and distant. Some old recollection washes over him, steals the focus from his gaze, until he shakes himself loose. “You always want room to maneuver—and to retreat.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
They share a moment of strange camaraderie.  
  
“The bridge by the brewery is fastest,” Valentine says. “Saves us from going all the way out to Bunker Hill.”

He is restless and resolved in equal measure. Kaelyn shies away from his, if not eagerness, then readiness. She only wishes for a way to make this easier for him. After all, he hasn’t seen the Commonwealth yet. She has.  
  
Nate follows her into the bedroom and makes note of the things she packs in her bag as he collects his own gear. “Where’s Diamond City?”  
  
“Fenway Park,” she answers. “It’s got walls and flat ground. Calling it a city might be overstating things a little. It’s just tin shacks and guards in baseball gear.”  
  
Quiet behind her but for the rustling of items being shoved in bags.  
  
She pads softly to Nate’s side and rests a hand on his back. “It won’t be easy, hon. But you won’t be alone out there. I promise.”  
  
His hands slow their packing. “It’s only a matter of time before you get called away again, and I can’t stay penned here.”  
  
Packing is a familiar ritual by now, so Kaelyn drifts while her hands work. The only time she has to think is when deciding on her loadout. Laser musket, sniper rifle, Deliverer. As much as she’d like to bring the Railway Rifle, it _is_ heavy. Codsworth is ready and waiting with the food backpack, which Nate snags before Kaelyn can. At her side-eyed glance, he doesn’t look even a touch repentant.  
  
“Do come home safely, mum, sir.”  
  
“Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll be back.” Nate slings an arm around Kaelyn’s shoulders. “Hold the fort here for us, okay?”  
  
Kaelyn grabs her hat on the way out the door and trots down the street to where Valentine waits.  
  
Nate reaches out to touch the edge of her fedora. “What is that?”  
  
“It’s a hat.” She adjusts the brim so it isn’t blocking her vision so much.  
  
Nate raises an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure that’s a fedora.”  
  
“What’s your point?”  
  
“You’re wearing a fedora, hon.”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re trying to imply. You’ll have to speak plainly.”  
  
“Fe-do-ra.”  
  
“I’m also wearing sunglasses. Would you like to make note of that too?”  
  
“Only that they look good on you. Nice deflection, by the way. See, I know your lawyer tricks, and I’m here to remind you that you’re wearing a fedora.”  
  
“What do you have against fedoras?” Valentine asks, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from kicking up.  
  
Nate snorts. “It’s a fedora. Enough said.”  
  
Not two minutes later they’re crossing the bridge, stepping out of Sanctuary’s protection and into the wider Commonwealth. Nate keeps his head low to navigate the bridge, unfamiliar with the gaping holes and loose planks, and he gives the broken section a wide berth. It’s a clear day with thin clouds strafing across the sky, pierced by needle-thin maple branches. The unkempt road is fissured with spiderwebbing cracks and at first he stumbles, his feet expecting smooth asphalt. Shallow puddles of water have collected like polished silver-blue trays.  
  
Kaelyn tries to remember those first days out of the vault: blurred, overbright images harsh on eyes adjusted to dim subterranean lights, splashes of color against the overarching gray, and sharp-edged grief. The taste of despair. Of radiation.  
  
At first she had been timid, hunched over, eternally fearful. But Nate is straight-backed and broad-shouldered, his stride long and clipped, in time to a march no one else can hear. His head swivels continuously as he looks at this new world they’re stuck in.  
  
In ten minutes they pass the Red Rocket Stop. Nate’s shoulders stiffen but he doesn’t stop. His breaths come faster, harsher, and he slows to take in the damage. Dogmeat chases a whirl of dust and dead leaves around the lot, the snap of his teeth loud in the morning quiet. He sniffs around the rusted cars, lifts his leg to mark a pump, then bolts to Kaelyn’s side when she whistles for him.  
  
Sagging power wires overhead point the way to Concord. Their footsteps are loud walking down the hill to the stoplights. Nate pauses at the crossroads. It won’t be the last time he stops to simply gape at the inevitable results of nuclear war and two hundred years of neglect.  
  
“It isn’t supposed to look like this,” he says, voice thick.  
  
“No, it isn’t,” Kaelyn agrees, quiet. She scans nearby roofs and windows, along with the hill line. “But we’re exposed out here.”  
  
Nate snaps his head up to scan their surrounds himself. “You’re right. Let’s go.”  
  
Kaelyn abandons the road to duck between run down houses until they meet the open hills. Nate is slower to follow, his attention pulled in so many directions, but he takes to treading through the picket-fenced graveyard of someone’s vegetable garden with surprising ease. It had taken her weeks to get used to the idea that these spaces aren’t privately owned anymore, that there are no laws governing trespass.  
  
But even skirting around Concord cannot conceal the extent of decay. Houses are gray, hollowed out shells that hold nothing but furniture splinters and bone fragments. Passing clouds darken the field they trudge through, softening the heavy sky beating down on their backs. Even for March, it’s unseasonably warm. She isn’t looking forward to her first summer in the post-war Commonwealth.  
  
Nate looks over his shoulder at Concord, then resettles the butt of his rifle in the crook of his shoulder.  
  
For hours, they walk through the rustling quiet. Here the road is nothing more than uneven chunks, like ugly tiles set in a mud mortar. Tracks in the sludge have baked in the days since the radstorm.

Movement by a rusted truck. Kaelyn skitters in the scrub, sinking into a half-crouch, and motions for the others to get down. Dogmeat crouches in the grass, hackles raised. Hidden behind a copse of slender gray trees, she lowers herself to one knee and takes care to unsling her sniper rifle without hitting the men on either side of her. Pushing her glasses to the top of her head, she flicks out the stand and puts one eye to the scope. The intersection is littered with cars. Some sport dents; all are rusted wrecks. At the first sweep she finds nothing amiss and then—there.  
  
A pale figure shambles behind an open car door, then disappears from view as it bends over.  
  
“Looks like a feral,” she murmurs.  
  
“Feral _what?”_ Nate whispers, his eyes scanning the intersection, his body tense and alert.  
  
Oh. Right. Not the best circumstances for this explanation, what with her tracking the feral currently sniffing at a punctured tire. A breeze blows the scent of burnt rubber and moldy decay into her nose; she can only pray that the wind doesn’t change direction. Nate has to tilt an ear towards her to hear her answer. “Ghouls are humans who have been exposed to extreme radiation and survived. Plenty of them are just normal people, but sometimes the radiation rots their brains. Turns them feral. These ones will attack anything that moves.”  
  
“Let me see.” His hands slide alongside hers, checking the safety along the way, and she bequeaths him with the rifle. He shifts on his knees until he can balance with the massive rifle, the muscles in his forearms corded steel, and peers down the scope. “What the _hell_...”  
  
Kaelyn puts her mouth to his ear. “See how it moves? They normally roam in packs, and they’re faster than they look.”  
  
“So they’re radioactive zombies?”  
  
“No, they’re still alive. They are fond of playing dead, though, so if you see one on the ground, shoot it.”  
  
“So... like radioactive zombies?”  
  
Kaelyn rolls her eyes. “Yes, honey, they’re radioactive zombies. Now pass me the rifle and get ready. If there are more of them about, they’ll emerge when I shoot.”  
  
The feral shambles to the side of the road, shoulders askew, the muscles of its neck bloated to give it a permanently hunched look. She draws in a breath, slips her finger through the trigger guard, and adjusts her aim for the final time.  
  
The feral collapses in a cloud of red. A flock of birds flit out of a nearby tree like dead leaves in a gale, screeching their panic. Kaelyn’s ears ring and her shoulder aches, but she scans for movement—  
  
There. Two more ferals flop out of the back seat of a car, sniffing the air. When they circle their fallen fellow, Kaelyn lines up a second shot. She ignores the tattered floral print dress, ignores the very _human_ way it bends down to rake its claws over the dead feral. She pulls the trigger.  
  
Another roar in her ears. Another fallen feral. For a moment it hangs suspended, a blue bonnet visible through the hole in its chest, and then it flops.  
  
The third feral’s head whips in their direction and it lurches forward—  
  
Only to stagger back in a hail of gunfire from Valentine and Nate. It spasms and jerks and falls.  
  
Kaelyn watches and waits. Nothing but for the rustling of bare branches.  
  
“Think that’s all of them,” Valentine rumbles.  
  
Even so, Kaelyn swaps out her sniper rifle for Deliverer and keeps it raised as they approach the intersection. Nate is equally disquieted; he stays close to her flank. When they reach the nearest feral, he prods it with one toe, rifle primed. But it doesn’t move. She half-turns to watch the rest of the cars while he performs his inspection.  
  
“And these— they used to be human?”  
  
She turns in a slow circle, surveying the area. Just in case. “Yes.”  
  
He swears softly.  
  
Kaelyn has made a point of not looking at ferals as much as possible, but when she glances down her eyes are caught. Its leathery hides oozes blood, its head tipped back and gaping in a silent shriek. It’s little more than skin stretched over ropey muscle, dried and shrunken, with thick wrinkles like fruit left to dry.  
  
“How can you tell which ones are feral and which aren’t?”  
  
Kaelyn crouches down beside him to point as she talks. “Ferals are more misshapen. You saw how they moved—that shamble? Normal ghouls walk and talk and wear clothes like a regular human. There’s no mistaking a normal ghoul for a feral.”  
  
They move on.  
  
The freeway overpass shadows their route, cutting west to east, and to the city. Pre-war advertising hails their approach to the remnants of civilization: Nuka-Girl espouses the joys of Nuka-Cola from a faded billboard. The city looms on the horizon now, faint and gray but growing more distinct with every minute, until one can count the broken shells of buildings.  
  
Boston.  
  
Nate lets out a shocked sigh. Whatever feelings he has tamped down, he cannot conceal the blank shock slackening his features.  
  
Boston is a _wreck_.

Its skyscrapers lean and groan, supports rusted and walls crumbling, their dominant color now rust brown instead of bright aquas and reds and greens. It shouldn’t be like this. It should be filled with the bustling-ant activity of thousands of people living atop one another, the streets clean, the roads maintained.  
  
It isn’t truly a memory Kaelyn has but mere impressions; images she knows overlaid and stitched together in a collage of colors that resemble the past.  
  
She tugs on Nate’s sleeve, but he won’t move. “Hon?”  
  
He blinks. Draws in a deep, rattling breath. “Right. Right.” He steps forward to lead the way, following the underbelly of a freeway he once drove on, his eyes hollow.  
  
Kaelyn halts them to scope out Beantown Brewery. She climbs atop a Nuka-Cola truck, lying flat, and scopes the other side of the river. But even though it’s clear, her palms sweat and that spot between her shoulder blades itches. The only movement stems from a flock of tumor-ridden ravens hopping around a brahmin’s corpse.  
  
_One for sorrow, two for joy; three for a girl, four for a—_  
  
“Looks clear,” Nate, who has been making his own inspection, says.  
  
The suburbs on the north bank funnel all newcomers to the river. The smell of brine and rot warns them they’re close, and Kaelyn glances around to double check their location when there is too much open space ahead; blue sky dominates the space where—

Oh. The CIT ruins are still gone.

Nate stops, gaping at the sight. “What the—! Did a bomb land here?”  
  
“No.” Kaelyn turns away from the gaping maw. The river is a flat brown tongue, lapping at the crater. “The Institute was built underground from the ruins of CIT.”  
  
A tense silence. Then: “You did this.”  
  
“It wasn’t my plan to overload the reactor core.” It’s not quite a denial, not quite a defense.  
  
“That’s— well. Huh.”

Nate hasn’t changed. She has.  
  
Late afternoon shadows chase them through the streets with the threat of sunset. Here the streets are not cleaner, per se, but rubble has been picked over for anything valuable so many times that whatever remains clumps in the corners like discarded offal. At the end of the lane, sheets of tin and plywood have been cobbled together to make a patchwork barricade. A mechanical whirring echoes down the street.  
  
Nate tenses and raises his rifle, shifting his stance to something combat-ready. “Turrets ahead.”  
  
“Friendlies,” Valentine says. “Don’t go shooting up Diamond City Security. They won’t much appreciate it.”  
  
Nate lowers the barrel of his rifle, looking somewhat sheepish, but keeps his attention on the fortifications. “Good to know.”  
  
He takes in the graffiti sprayed white against the dusty green wall. The patrolling guards let them by and Nate peers up at the crude fortifications. Then they stand in the square in front of what was once Fenway Park.  
  
“ _Oh,”_ Nate breathes beside her, with the awed tone of fresh discovery. “ _Diamond_ City. Well played, whoever came up with the name.”  
  
Since the gates are open, they can walk right in. The guard on duty, leaning against the wall tapping his bat against his knee, nods in their direction. “Hey, Valentine. And you... you’re that vault dweller. From the paper.”  
  
Kaelyn gives an evasive non-answer and steers Nate up the stairs. Muddy tracks on the dark concrete, layered atop each other like uneven dabs of paint, exude an unpleasant aroma. Then they step, blinking, into the light.  
  
“This can’t be real,” Nate mutters. “My favorite baseball stadium has become a shanty town.”  
  
Kaelyn looks out but all she can see is the same old Diamond City: A patchwork village cobbled together from anything that could be scavenged. The metal archway beckons them down the stairs to the marketplace, where bright stalls with their bright red tarps snap in the breeze. The only green comes from half-hearted attempts to cover the rusted shack walls. The muddy field is still going strong in its efforts to swallow the wooden planks put down for people to walk over.  
  
A crowd is gathered around All Faiths Church, all tense shapes jostling for a better view. Diamond City Security are milling around, as nervous as cats in a damp room.  
  
“Where’s the fire?” Valentine asks.  
  
He and Kaelyn share a look, then they push through recalcitrant bodies— _’scuse me, don’t mind me, coming through, move_ —to reach the eye of the human hurricane. Shocked whispers become irritated cries as nudges become full shoves. Someone elbows Kaelyn in the ribs, but when she glances sideways there’s no telling who the culprit is.  
  
She breaks through at last and—  
  
Stops dead.  
  
Danny Sullivan is propped against the door to All Faiths, his abdomen a mess of red.  
  
“Danny!” Something in her expression convinces the guards to permit her to pass, and she drops to her knees beside him. “Who did this?”  
  
His glassy eyes swivel to Kaelyn. “Mayor—” he gasps, “Mayor McDonough is a synth!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: the end of the chapter is NSFW. A SFW version is on [FFNet](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12381385/7/Marriage-and-Other-Forms-of-War).
> 
> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

Danny’s face is dead white under layers of sweat and freckles and blood. His intestines glisten, barely held in place by his hand. Each breath rattles in his chest, heavy and labored.  
  
“Someone get a doctor!” Kaelyn shouts into the crowd, then grips Danny’s shoulder. “Danny. Danny, look at me. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get a doctor and you’ll be okay.”  
  
Pastor Clements crouches on Danny’s other side, gripping the young guard’s shoulder. “Hold on, Sullivan. Just make God wait a little longer.”  
  
“You’ve gotta listen! Mayor McDonough... I saw him with one of those Institute synths. Piper was right. He’s one of them.”  
  
Fresh cries ripple through the crowd like rocks thrown into choppy waters, bringing yet more chaos to the disturbed surface.

“McDonough’s a synth!”

“What do we do now?!”  
  
Kaelyn tunes it out, focuses on the young man in front of her. Distracts him while they wait. “What happened to you?”  
  
“Two slugs in the gut and— fell out an elevator.” His breath hitches. “Damn— hurts. A lot.”  
  
Now that she knows to look, she notices his leg is bent at an unnatural angle. Inhaling sharply, she focuses on his face instead. Danny’s breathing shallows, the pulse in his neck thin and flighty.  
  
Kaelyn fumbles for the satchel at her waist and drives a stimpak into his arm. “Stay with me, Danny!”  
  
His eyelids flutter as she tosses the empty syringe aside, his mouth making weak motions.  
  
“Where’s the damn doctor?” she demands over her shoulder. Surely it can’t take this long for someone to run to the clinic and back?  
  
“You there!” Nate barks behind her. “Get the nearest doctor, now!” He then hands her a wad of cloth. Some kind of scarf; no time to question its acquisition. “Lay this over his wound, but don’t put too much pressure on it.”  
  
When Kaelyn does so, she finds the cloth is damp. Brushing Danny’s sweat-slicked hair out of his face, she glances to the Mega Surgery but can’t see anything from the ground. Between her and Pastor Clements, they endeavor to keep Danny awake. Dogmeat weasels past Kaelyn’s elbow to nose Danny’s face, and a puff of humid dog-breath seems to do more to rouse him than the stimpak. 

Danny’s eyes slide open and his head lolls in her direction. “If you don’t mind, I’m just gonna... lie here for a bit.”  
  
“See? You’ll be right as rain,” Valentine says. “Ah, there’s the doc now. Clear the way, people!”  
  
A churn of movement in the corner of her eye, and then Doctor Sun is pushing her out of the way, tossing his kit to Pastor Clements.  
  
Before she can completely cede her space to the doctor, Danny grips Kaelyn’s wrist, smearing hot wet red over her skin. “Thank you. Get him before he... can hurt anyone else.”  
  
And then Doctor Sun peels away the scarf hiding Danny’s ruined abdomen and Nate’s hands are under her elbows, pulling her to her feet before she’s trodden on.

Frantic voices: “The mayor! He’s a synth! Someone has to do something about him!”

“Oh no, he’s a part of the Institute...”

Around her, face after face is pulled taut in a mask of fear. Shoulders are hunched, hands are twisting together, eyes are white-rimmed. It’s all too familiar to another day, another street, another tragedy that paralyzed neighbors with fear.  
  
Kaelyn can’t look at their faces.  
  
The shrill blare of an alarm— _it’s coming, it’s finally here, we’re going to die, get to the vault!—_ is only the hollow ringing in her ears. She draws in a rattling breath, shakes out the remembered fear. Looks to the mayor’s office. Then she starts pushing her way through the crowd. She couldn’t do anything then, but she can now.  
  
Nate snags her arm. “Hey, hey, hey, where do you think you’re going?”  
  
“I’m going to confront McDonough before anyone else gets hurt.”  
  
“Just like that?”  
  
“He’s already shot Danny. I’m not letting him hurt anyone else.”  
  
Some emotion chases itself over his face, too fast to parse, and then he is resolved. “ _We_ are going to confront McDonough, okay?”  
  
“Then we’d best get a move on,” Valentine breaks in. “Time’s wasting, and that elevator ain’t quick. McDonough could run up and down the stairs twice in the time it takes us to get up there, and he ain’t the height of fitness.”  
  
The crowd parts for them in uneven clumps; a stray ankle here, a waving hand there. Three guards peel away from the mass of panicky townsfolk to follow them, smacking their bats into their gloved hands, growling, _for Sully_. Up the twisting ramp that rattle under their boot treads, past the spray painted sign that reads _MAYOR,_ they reach the elevator. Kaelyn hits the button and jitters on one foot; she makes the mistake of looking up to watch it descend, and realizes why the elevator is still up in the stands. Dogmeat sits by her feet and in the cramped space someone almost steps on his tail. It takes them up to what used to be a window in the commentator box, now converted to an office. But it retains that feel of old money privilege.  
  
More guards are poised around the room, guns drawn, while one Piper Wright kicks the door. “I knew it! I knew you were a synth!”  
  
The mayor’s voice vibrates through the metal security door, harsh and shrill. “Yes, Piper, congratulations! I hope you break your foot on the door!”  
  
“Dammit!” Piper glances back at the commotion and her eyes light up when she spots the newcomers. “He’s barricaded himself in his office. No key. But there’s gotta be a way in.”  
  
Nate marches forward to press a palm to the seam of the security door, looking it up and down. “Too risky to blow it open. Is there a lock on this side, or only in his office?”  
  
Valentine catches the train of thought. “Doesn’t Geneva get a say over who gets in to see the mayor?”  
  
Nate skims his palm to the side, striking the power box next to it. A cable runs from it down the wall. “Look at that.”  
  
Piper follows the cable to Geneva’s desk and— “Aha!” She points to a button welded to the underside of the desk.  
  
Kaelyn takes a step towards the desk. “Where _is_ Geneva?”  
  
“McDonough must’ve grabbed her when he bolted,” one of the guards pipes up. “I heard her in the room with him.”  
  
Nate’s voice sharpens. “You didn’t think that was pertinent information to share? We can’t go in there guns blazing if he has a hostage.”  
  
The guard shakes his head. “For all we know, she could already be dead. That synth is not walking out of this!” He and his fellows are eager—too eager, with fear aggravating them instead of tempering them.  
  
Nate grits his teeth. “That is not an assumption I’m going to make.”  
  
“The point of taking a hostage is leverage. If McDonough’s smart, she won’t be harmed until we make our move.” Kaelyn holds out an imploring hand. “Just let me try to talk him down. Nobody antagonize him until I’ve negotiated her release. Danny will get his justice, but Geneva doesn’t have to die for it.” She looks hard at each guard in turn until, one by one, they concede to her.  
  
Nate surveys the room, and then the security door. “Are there any other entrances to his office?”  
  
“Just the stairs back here,” one of the guards answers, pointing his bat at the landing.  
  
“Right. It’s a tight space in here, so pistols only. You four, guard the stairs. Two up top, two bottom. Take Dogmeat with you.You’re our last line of defense. McDonough will not get past you. You two, guard the elevator. Nobody comes up or down until it’s clear.” There’s no resisting the calm authority in Nate’s voice, underscored by steel, and the guards comply.  
  
They take up positions around the door; Valentine backs up to Geneva’s desk and crouches. Nate shoots Piper a wary look, uncertain about her status as a combatant, but her fierce determination and modified pistol convince him to let her be.  
  
“Whenever you’re ready.”  
  
Kaelyn draws in a breath and readies herself to add ‘hostage negotiator’ to her repertoire. At her nod, Valentine hits the button and joins them.  
  
The doors creak on their hinges as they swing inward. Mayor McDonough, in his worn brown suit, stands by his desk with an arm around his secretary’s throat, her body too slight to completely shield him. Geneva trembles in his grasp, her manicured nails digging into McDonough’s meaty wrist, and her white-ringed eyes flit between the four pistols carefully aimed at the floor. Her pristine white shirt, scant shades paler than her face, crinkles as she twists. There are dark stains under her arm pits.  
  
“That’s far enough!” McDonough brandishes his own pistol.  
  
“Help me! Please—!”  
  
McDonough yanks on Geneva’s neck to quieten her. “I am not just going to be discarded and tossed to the wolves! I’m the mayor, dammit!”  
  
Kaeyln keeps her pistol pointed low and her voice steady. “Mayor McDonough, I can help you, but not while you’re holding a hostage. Let her go.”  
  
McDonough looks from face to face, as if taking in his odds for the first time. Sweat gleams in fat beads on his forehead, and the flower pinned on his suit is wilted. “All— all right. She can go.”  
  
Geneva bolts before his arm is entirely loosened from her neck, stumbling in her heels, and Kaelyn and Piper part to let her pass before closing ranks again.  
  
McDonough wets his lips, his hands tightening around his pistol grip. “Now. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. I’m walking out of this city. Unharmed. With my dignity intact.”  
  
The muzzle of Piper’s gun tips up a few inches. “You’re not getting off the hook that easy, McDonough! You have to answer for what you’ve done!”  
  
“You’re going to stand trial,” Kaelyn says, slow and hard, “and these people are going to have justice.”  
  
Piper mutters, “You’ve got plenty to answer for.”  
  
“Trial?” McDonough scoffs. “Please. You know how these people feel about synths. I won’t be tossed in prison while they gloat!” It’s the last bark of a cornered dog. Sweat runs down his temples, and he twitches as if going to blot it and then remembers the pistol in his hands. “I’m either walking out of this city free or I’m gunning down as many of you disgusting, filthy savages as I can!”  
  
He raises his pistol, and Kaelyn’s world narrows to the muzzle pointed at her.  
  
A bark of sound to her left, and McDonough staggers. Kaelyn squeezes the trigger. Three, four, five, six red holes in his chest by the time he hits the ground.  
  
Just like that, it’s over.  
  
Nate stares down at the mayor as his face slackens, glassy eyes fixing on the empty space behind them.  
  
Piper lowers her pistol. She watches McDonough too. “He’s dead. Huh. Can’t say he didn’t deserve worse, but...” She trails off with a sigh.  
  
“And Mayor McDonough’s term ends with a bang,” Valentine says.  
  
“So what happens now?” Kaelyn asks.  
  
Piper puckers her lips. “Without a mayor, the city council will be next in line to pick up the pieces. Let’s hope they do a better job. I don’t know when people are gonna be ready for another mayoral election. Not any time soon, that’s for sure. But at least now Diamond City will finally have the truth.”  
  
Geneva huddles on the far side of the office front, her once-neat hairstyle now nothing more than disheveled blonde strands. She wrings her hands, her gaze blank. When Kaelyn approaches, it takes her several long moments to recognise the company. “He almost killed me!” Finally, her eyes shine with recognition. “You... you saved my life. Oh, I think I’m going to faint...”  
  
“Here, miss, sit down a moment.” Nate ushers her into a chair and speaks quietly to her while Kaelyn motions over two of the guards.

  
She asks, “Could one of you spread the word that Diamond City is safe from McDonough? And someone escort Geneva home?”  
  
“Can do,” the first guard answers, and they both coax Geneva into the elevator.  
  
Nate looks around the room one more time. He fingers the grip of his pistol. “I guess that’s that.”

—

People shout questions while the elevator is still in the air.

“Is it safe?”

“Where’s the mayor?”

“Bring the synth out!”  
  
They have a decent aerial view of the city, such as it is with its rusted patchwork roofs in brown and green. Piper leans over the railing. “Mayor McDonough was a synth! When we tried to arrest him, he threatened to kill as many people as he could!”  
  
Kaelyn is content to stand back and let Piper handle it, yelling back answers as quickly as people can throw them. Nate remains close by, radiating tension as the elevator docks with a hollow clunk and expels them down the ramp to the waiting crowd. After Diamond City Security have their own questions answered they order people to move along, but the crowd is slow to dissipate.  
  
“The city council will need to hear about this. I’ve got a lot to clean up here, Blue,” Piper says, wincing when a guard right beside her ear shouts _go back to your homes!_ “Hit me up later.”  
  
“Gonna check in with Ellie at the agency. Make sure she’s all right in all this,” Valentine says, dropping a hand onto Kaelyn’s shoulder as he passes.  
  
She nods. “Say hi to her for me.”  
  
“Will do.” Valentine ducks through the fringes of the crowd and escapes into an alley with a swish of his coat. Even though he knows this city far better than she ever will, she worries that the anti-synth sentiment might spill over to catch him with its molten fury. Under the harsh stadium lights and harsher watching eyes, there is no easy escape for Kaelyn and Nate. She isn’t an unknown figure in town, and enough people turn to her that a piece of her shrinks down.  
  
A woman nearby shakes her head from side to side. “I voted for the mayor twice. He was with the Institute the whole time?”  
  
“The paper was right all along,” another woman says. “I can’t believe it.”  
  
Through a timely coincidence, Pastor Clements parts the nearest bystanders and clasps her hands, blocking their view of her. “Thank you,” he says. “God willing, Sullivan will make a full recovery.”  
  
“It was nothing,” Kaelyn says, uncomfortable, watching the people behind him give up and go home. Perhaps it isn’t so coincidental, after all.  
  
“No, it wasn’t.” But Pastor Clements doesn’t press further, and escorts them as far as the entrance to All Faiths. From there they have an escape route down a side street. Nate positions himself between Kaelyn and the remaining loiterers, alert for any threats. With such mistrust of his neighbors, he fits right in.  
  
Nate is calm but guarded. He fiddles with his 10mm, checking the safety, ensuring that it’s securely holstered. His expression betrays nothing. “That didn’t take long, did it?”  
  
It had taken her two days from stepping out of Vault 111 to make her first kill. But it’s not something she can offer as consolation.  
  
Nate looks up at the stands. “This isn’t my first rodeo, but... damn.”  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
“When you carry a gun, you have to be ready to use it.” When he looks down at her, she realizes he’s still afraid. “For a moment there, I thought he was going to shoot you. And that scared me more than anything else.”  
  
Nate had been standing to her left. She remembers that now. Coming to a halt, Kaelyn reaches up to brush her knuckles along his stubbled jaw. It’s a far cry from the neat goatee he used to keep trimmed, but still too short to qualify as a beard. “I’m okay, hon. We’re okay.”  
  
He leans into her touch. Bolsters himself. “Is there going to be some kind of investigation into McDonough’s death?” He pauses, mouth quirking. “Do they have that kind of thing out here?”  
  
“He was a synth working for the Institute. People have been afraid of that for a long time. If anything, you’ll be a hero.” The words leave a bad taste in her mouth. As if killing is something to be celebrated instead of mourned. She looks out at the glorified shanty town. “McDonough was right about one thing: it would have been a lynching. People are paranoid about the Institute, and the usual sentence handed out these days is execution.”

DC’s lockup is for misdemeanours, not treason.

  
Any notion of a tour shrivels under the pall of shock that shrouds the city. So they simply wander instead through streets of mud marked by pilfered signs in a primitive imitation of pre-war civilization. Nate is distracted and she disquieted. Sensing the wary atmosphere, Dogmeat prowls at their heels. People stare as they pass.  
  
“There she is! The woman of the hour!” one of the guards calls. Another shakes her hand for saving Danny, and shakes Nate’s for shooting McDonough.

“The legend herself! Way to give it to the Institute. You’re like my hero, or something. I dunno. So thanks.”  
  
Kaelyn can only nod when all she wants to do is shrink away from the attention. _How did he know I was involved? Maybe he just means McDonough. No need to jump to conclusions._  
  
As they stroll around the market in the shifting hours between open and closed, the streets are much quieter than they would normally be in these last frantic minutes. Something catches Nate’s attention, and he plucks an edition of Publick Occurrences from a bench.

“Look, you’re in the paper.” He points to one of the last paragraphs. Kaelyn peers around his arm to read.  
  
_This reporter held onto hope, for one very specific reason. If my sources are correct—and I know they are—the Institute’s destruction was actually orchestrated by someone many of us have already met: the vault dweller, Kaelyn Prescott. It would seem that lonely figure who came into our settlement searching for a missing child actually found the monster that had taken so many children. And killed it._  
  
Kaelyn is taken aback by the sudden swell of anger that rattles the bars of her ribcage, seeking release. Her hands clench into fists, nails biting into the palms of her fingerless gloves. Then she straightens her shoulders and holds a hand out for the paper. “Excuse me a moment. I need to have a word with Piper.”  
  
Outside Publick Occurrences, Nat stands on her box, advertising the paper. When she spots Kaelyn, she bounces on the balls of her feet. “I wish I could have been there when you kicked Mayor McDonough’s butt!”  
  
“No, you don’t,” she says. At Nat’s pout, she realizes she’s being an un-fun adult, but can’t bring herself to care. Excitement for action only chills her these days. “Is your sister here?”  
  
“Yeah, she’s working on the write up about McDonough.”  
  
“Thanks, Nat.”

Kaelyn strides into the office. Piper is hunched over her desk, muttering to herself as she scrawls and scribbles, struggling to keep her hands in time with her rapid-fire thoughts. The lightbulb over her head flickers, most likely from some faulty wiring, but Piper doesn’t notice or care. She mutters something about deserving the truth, even if they can’t have justice.  
  
Piper isn’t trying to profit off Kaelyn’s grief, but to spread the truth as best she knows it. That fact cools her frustration a few degrees. “Piper. I have a bone to pick with you.” She holds up her edition of _The Boogeyman Banished?_ “What is this?”  
  
Piper squints at the paper. “That would be my report on the Institute’s downfall. What’s the problem?”  
  
“The problem is that you printed this without ever talking to me.”  
  
“The people of Diamond City have a right to know the truth! And it _is_ truth. I spoke to Valentine. Thought you said you supported a free media?”  
  
“I do.” Kaelyn leans back against the writer’s desk behind her, feeling the aches in her ankles, her calves, her chest. “Piper. You know I went looking for the Railroad. My concern is that if my association to the CIT explosion becomes known, it could put more than just me in jeopardy. If the Railroad claims credit for the Institute’s downfall, then anyone with an ax to grind against them need look no further than me. If you’re going to print any more stories about me, please talk to me first. I just... don’t want any more attention.”  
  
“You’re gonna retire as a hermit? Is that where you’ve been this last month?” Piper looks her up and down, and her expression shifts. “Okay, Blue, I hear you. Next time—and at this rate, there’s gonna be a next time—you give me an exclusive interview first. Deal?”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
Piper leans on the desk beside Kaelyn. They’re quiet together, minutes slipping away under the churning press of ink and paper. And then: “Did you... did you find your son?”  
  
Kaelyn’s silence is answer enough.  
  
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Piper rests a hand on Kaelyn’s back. “The Institute has taken so much from the Commonwealth.”  
  
She bows her head. “They have.”  
  
“It is true what Valentine said, right, that the Institute is gone for good?”  
  
She nods. “It’s true.”  
  
Piper stares into space, her fingers slowing from their fast-paced drumming, her expression distant and contemplative. “I still can’t believe it. They’re gone. The Institute’s gone. Do— do you know what this means?”  
  
Kaelyn stares at the ground. “A lot of people sacrificed themselves to get us here.”  
  
“They did. But thanks to them, and to you, we get to live free.” Her tone changes to one of wonder: “it means no more kidnappings. No more sleepless nights, terrified you’re neighbor’s plotting against you. No more fear. Thanks to you, we don’t have to be afraid anymore.”  
  
The last thing Kaelyn wants is more thanks. “I don’t think I could have done this on my own.”  
  
“True, but the Institute was around long before you got here, and now they’re not. Here’s to the Commonwealth’s new future.”  
  
“Maybe you can look to the future,” she says. “But all I can see is the past.”  
  
On the street, Nate has wandered across the road to investigate All Faiths Church, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, hunching against a sudden gale that rattles the pilfered road signs and elicits creaking moans from the tin shacks, like the complaints of old bones in the cold. Clouds have since rolled in, their bellies dark and swollen with rain, making the evening dingier than it should be. She crosses the road to meet Nate, stays quiet while he thinks. He shifts, seemingly without noticing, to bump his shoulder against hers.  
  
Kaelyn scratches an itch on her wrist and notices the bracelet of drying red. Stares at it. “Do you think Danny will be okay?”  
  
Nate’s grimace is not comforting. “Gut wounds are nasty, I’m afraid. Sure, you don’t die as quickly, but any leaking can be, ah, disastrous. It’s down to the doctor and plain old luck now.” He rests a hand on her shoulder. “I wish I had better news for you.”  
  
She wraps her arms around herself. “It’s not your fault. It is what it is. But Danny’s a good kid. And I’m so tired of people dying.”  
  
“If it were me—and it was, not so long ago—I’d hold on if a pretty lady ordered me too.”  
  
She wishes she could return his smile, accept the joke, but her chest is too heavy.  
  
Thanks to the encroaching clouds, the sky has darkened rapidly over the last few minutes. They only realize how much so when the stadium lights flick on, burning away the evening.  
  
“It’s getting late,” Nate says, wincing under the stadium lights. “We need somewhere to stay.”  
  
Kaelyn purses her lips. “I know just the place.”

They reach Dugout Inn just as the clouds burst open. Nate ushers Kaelyn through the door first, pulling it shut behind him. A mismatch of furniture is arranged around the room, from wooden stools to faded couches, along with eclectic decor pilfered from pre-war ruins without care for their intended purpose. Shredded remnants of posters decorate the walls, nothing more than adhesive and paper fibers.

Despite the dank carpets and grim concrete, the bar feels homey by virtue of the bartender Vadim’s personality. Patrons already occupy couches around the room, mostly with drinks of some sort or another. A bad combination of damp clothes, warm bodies and poor ventilation leave the room steamy with humidity. The hard drum of rain drowns out all but the most domineering of voices—and Vadim’s bellowing laugh.  
  
“Ah! Mayor McDonough is gone. Turns out he was a synth. Maybe I run for mayor one day? You know, I was once king of entire country. All women.”  
  
A quiet word with Yefim and they have a room for the night. After dumping their gear—and booby-trapping the room, in case a thief tries their luck—Kaelyn and Nate return to the bar in the pursuit of food. He flops backward into a chair, sitting with his legs kicked out, but remains pensive. He drums his fingers on the counter top, avoiding a stain of questionable origin, while he looks about the room. A far cry from its intended purpose, but still a compliment to human ingenuity, to their ability to survive despite all odds. Not to mention the necessity of alcohol as a coping mechanism.  
  
Nate nods to himself, still drumming his fingers, still looking at the counter. Kaelyn waits him out. He leans forward, and his eyes are a deep dark green. “Who actually won the Great War?”  
  
Kaelyn looks at him. “Everyone lost.”  
  
With night comes patrons, and between the abrupt removal of the mayor plus the miserable weather the place is packed. No one can unseat Kaelyn and Nate from their prime position at the bar, Dogmeat lying at their feet, dining on the daily special of brahmin roast. Hawthorne welcomes Kaelyn back and when he asks about Mayor McDonough, she feels enough goodwill to indulge his curiosity.  
  
Vadim leans on the bar, making a half-hearted pretense at cleaning a stain near Nate’s arm for all of five seconds before cheering, “Who knew, eh? Good riddance! You two have drink, on the house.”  
  
“Thanks, Vadim, but not tonight.” The reputation of Bobrov’s Best would be enough to make anyone think twice. But Kaelyn declines because of how much she wants to say yes.  
  
She leans heavily on her elbows, letting her hair tip over her face, concealing what they can. She wants to put her glasses back on, but only Deacon can pull off wearing sunglasses in the dark without looking like an idiot.  
  
Shouts from one of the couches cut through the warm air. “Here’s to the Commonwealth!” The speaker, a middle aged man with a receding hairline, holds his drink high and his fellows cheer. Scarlett is already there with another round of drinks to capitalize on the toast. “The Brotherhood and the Institute gone! Best news I’ve heard in years.”  
  
Kaelyn stiffens. But she can’t unhear it now that her ears know to listen for words in the garble.  
  
“Maybe they wiped each other out.”  
  
“Good riddance, if that’s the case. Don’t know about that woman who came through. How could she have caused that explosion at CIT? Easy on the eyes, though—”  
  
Nate clears his throat, loud and pointed, but he isn’t close enough to catch the speaker’s attention.  
  
“Man, you gotta stop reading crap like the Publick.”  
  
Worse, this sparks another conversation elsewhere, like a spark jumping into a gasoline can. “Did you see that explosion? The blimp the Brotherhood had... the whole sky was on fire...”  
  
It was.

Even through the sudden crash of her heart, the pound of rain, Kaelyn can’t stop hearing.  
  
“I was on duty when it exploded. Wonder if there were any survivors?”  
  
“I heard the Brotherhood’s sent more tin cans along to figure out what happened.” This pronouncement is followed by disgruntled mutterings like ants running about on a cloudy afternoon.  
  
That freezes her blood.  
  
“Oh man, didja see it? I was at Bunker Hill, so I had a good view of the whole thing. Night was quiet, save for those vertibirds doing who knows what, and then—blam!” She smacks her hand against her thigh. “That airship lit up like a second sun!”  
  
Kaelyn can see it behind her eyes, that fierce orange glow turning night to day, bubbling outward in rolling heaves of fire. Can feel the heat despite the frigid salty air whipping across her face—  
  
And she can’t stay here, she has to move, she has to _escape_. Her heart pounds loud and strong in her ears, like a war drum, urging her onward, onward—there. A break in the mess of faceless bodies. A breath of air, cold against her sweaty face. She catches the door before it closes and slips out.  
  
The front of the inn is little more than empty concrete and mud, save for a lone soul sitting at one of the picnic tables. The rain has slowed to something more manageable, and Kaelyn darts up the concrete steps and slogs as far through the mud as she can before she doubles over and retches. Acid burns her throat. She grips the back of a nearby chair for support.  
  
“Yeah, I get that too sometimes,” the hoodie-clad man says.  
  
Kaelyn can only look at him, her mind too slow to make the connection before the silence becomes awkward. The man doesn’t seem too bothered, however, and gives a loud, congested sniff before returning to whatever he holds in his hands. Swiping the back of her hand over her mouth, she grimaces and turns her face up to the rain. The ice-cold drizzle feels warm on her skin, soothing away the stickiness of fear-sweat. She’s numb and aching in the silent gray.  
  
Someone touches her back and Kaelyn jerks away. Turns to find not the hoodie-clad man or a stranger but her Nate. Dogmeat noses her hand with high, fleeting whines and she gives him a weak reassuring pat.  
  
“Honey.” Nate doesn’t try to touch her again just yet, keeps his distance, even if he looks like he wants nothing more than to pull her into his arms. “Are you all right? You bolted out of there like your tail was on fire.”  
  
“I just— I needed some fresh air.”  
  
He nods, but his expression is too discerning. “Okay. You ready to head back in or do you need another moment?”  
  
“Are they still talking about the Prydwen?” At his blank look, she amends, “The Brotherhood of Steel? Or the Institute?”  
  
“Let me check.” With a motion for Dogmeat to stay, Nate ducks back inside.  
  
Wrapping her arms around herself, Kaelyn closes her eyes and listens to the rain. The sky had been clear that night. Could see a candle for miles, let alone—

She presses the heel of one hand into her forehead.  
  
The metallic creak of the door has her springing to full alert. It’s only Nate, with his soft words and leading hands and that damn empathy. “All clear, if you want to come back in.”  
  
She does, if only to escape the cold. Nate escorts her through the crowded room, one hand hovering over the small of her back; their seats have already been claimed at the bar. Even so, Kaelyn marches to an unclaimed space between a drunk caravan guard and a local farmer. “You know what?” she tells Vadim. “I might have that drink after all.”  
  
A grin cracks Vadim’s face. “Aha! Knew you could not resist. Here, sit down a moment.” He plants a glass on the counter and fills it with a dark, pungent liquid. Even from this distance, it makes her eyes burn.  
  
Kaelyn knows better than gulp it down, but even a single sip has her choking. Nate leans on the bar beside her with one eyebrow raised, but offers no comment beyond declining a drink for himself.  
  
“Eugh. That is terrible. Get me another.”  
  
Vadim laughs, hale and hearty. “Don’t order just one. Live it up!”

She downs a second drink but refuses a third, no matter how many people offer to pick up the tab. She’s afraid that if she starts proper, she’ll never stop. Nate chases away an unwanted admirer of hers by simply shifting in his seat, oh-so-conveniently flexing his sizable biceps along the way. While the intricacies of male posturing are beyond Kaelyn, the results are clear enough, and when she glances over at Nate, she finds he looks as weary as she feels.  
  
He drops his hands onto her shoulders and bends his head to her ear. “How about we get out of here?”  
  
At Kaelyn’s nod, he takes her hand to escort her from the bar. After a brief tussle with the lock, their room is dark and inviting. A solitary lamp throws dim yellow light over the rug and the bed, softening the hard concrete edges of the room. Dogmeat hops on the bed at once and curls up under the pillow.  
  
Nate catches her again, runs his hands down her arms. “How are you feeling, hon? What you’re really feeling, not some diplomatic edited version.”  
  
“I know that for these people, the Institute’s downfall means they don’t have to fear a shot in the dark. But I was there and—” she closes her eyes.  
  
“You don’t want to remember,” he finishes. His thumbs trace circles over her skin.  
  
“No.” She deflates with a sigh, then focuses on Nate. “What about you? It can’t have been easy for you today. Give me the sitrep.”  
  
Away from the light and noise, Nate’s shoulders drop from around his ears. His expression grows distant, sliding past her to stare through the wall. “I can hardly believe it. Giant bugs? Radioactive zombies? A shanty town in Fenway Park? This can’t be real. All our technology, all our progress, all our sacrifices. All of it gone. This isn’t the future I fought for.”  
  
Kaelyn twists in his grip so she can rest her hands over his, feeling the tiny pulse ticking away under his skin. “Take your time, hon.”  
  
His eyes flick to her, then, glimmering in the dark.  
  
She isn’t quite sure who makes the first move; whether it’s Nate tightening his hold or whether her feet are already carrying her towards him. A sudden crush of longing grips her; it isn’t so much desire as it is need. She needs to feel him, to be close to him, needs to share reassurance between them. Evidently, Nate feels the same, dropping his hands to her waist.  
  
He swoops down, but Kaelyn turns her head away with a sudden realization. “Hold it! My mouth tastes terrible. Give me a minute.”

She scurries away to clean her teeth as best she can and wipe off the worst of the grime. He follows suit, and soon enough they’re standing across from one another with a wary sort of expectancy.  
  
Nate tilts his head towards the bed, and a loose lock of hair falls over his ear. “Shall we?”  
  
She follows the direction of his gesture. Even if they evict Dogmeat, the mattress is dry but blotchy with mystery stains—and best they stay a mystery. “You know, the wall is probably more hygienic.”  
  
Kaelyn looks at Nate; Nate looks at Kaelyn.  
  
He pulls in a breath and steps towards her. Her heart begins to pound. His gait is far removed from his typical amble; this is something smoother. A prowl. She backs up a step, relishing the shiver of heat low in her belly. Then her back hits the wall and Nate reaches out, oh-so-casual, to brace his hands on either side of her waist, and she is comfortably pinned.  
  
Kaelyn’s fingers hook into his shirt in a way that makes his muscles flutter underneath. “Take it off.”  
  
Nate complies at once, his biceps flexing as he yanks his shirt off and tosses it aside. And then he’s pressing against her, pushing her more firmly against the wall until she can feel the imprint of concrete against her back and her husband’s well-toned torso against her chest. It’s certainly a nicer interpretation of ‘between a rock and a hard place’. Nate annihilates any gap whatsoever between them, bends down to kiss her, and this time she doesn’t turn away. He cups her face in both his hands and slants his mouth over hers, nips at her lower lip, relishes the slide of his tongue against her own.

She wants the security of his touch, the promise that accompanies such intimate comfort, and it calls to the same disquiet in him, if his desperate edge is any indication. For several minutes, the only sounds are his lips against hers and their uneven breaths and the rain drumming low and hard on the roof.  
  
Nate fists his hand in her shirt at her hip, yanking upward to slide his palm over the small of her back. He eases back enough for their clothes to comfortably slide away, forgotten once the fabric no longer impedes the contact they both crave. Kaelyn drags her nails down his stomach and his muscles jump. She’s about to flip him when he braces against her push and presses her more firmly against the wall.

With a flash of a smile in the dark, Nate catches her wrists to pin them above her head. “Not tonight,” he murmurs into the crook of her neck, and the feel of his breath draws a shiver from her.  
  
Nevertheless, Kaelyn does her best to pout at him. Which is rather difficult when his lips are doing such wonderful things. She welcomes the retreat of the world until there is nothing but his lips roaming her skin, her nails digging into his shoulders, the rhythm of their bodies. They take their time, sharing kisses between gasps, comfort more important than the rising swell of heat in her belly or his stuttering breath on her neck.  
  
“Whatever’s out there,” Nate gasps into the crook of her neck, sudden and insistent, “you and I have this.”  
  
She fists her hands in his hair, ducks her mouth to his ear. “I am _never_ losing you again.”  
  
He shudders at that, going tense at once, and slips a hand down to ensure she follows him off the edge.

Nate makes a deep noise that she can feel where their chests are pressed together and bumps his forehead against hers, their slowing breaths mingling humid in the air. Their untangling is a reluctant one, her feet ginger as they lower to solid ground. A final kiss, and then they are separate again. After reclaiming their clothes, settling on the bed proves to be something of a challenge when Dogmeat refuses to move, but they manage to find an arrangement that works for all parties. The sticky cling of half-dried sweat is never pleasant, but Kaelyn is already crawling into oblivion.  
  
Her dreams are sharp and overbright things stalking the black. Cold white reflections on the floor in Shaun’s office; red that paints walls and floors in patternless streaks; that fierce orange glow so deep she can see it behind closed eyelids.  
  
Kaelyn rolls away, sweat slicking the sheets to her skin, heart pounding, convinced Nate can hear it. Almost falls off the side of the bed; her husband has stretched in his sleep, and the bed isn’t large to begin with. He somehow ousted Dogmeat from his place, the shepherd now curled at the foot of the bed. Pressing the heel of her hand to her brow, there is nothing to do but let the shudders overwhelm her like a pack of wild mongrels, skeletal and rangy, closing in on a freshly dead corpse.  
  
_What have I done?_  
  
She runs her hands through her hair, grabbing fistfuls by the roots, waiting for the fear to abate.  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
The fear never leaves her but the shaking does, until she can hold her hands in front of her face with only the faintest tremble in her fingers. The sheets rustle behind her; Nate shifting position. She runs her knuckles along his stubbled jaw, and he turns into her touch. Only when she tries to squeeze in beside him, she finds an arm thrown around her pillow and a leg in her way. She’d forgotten just how much space Nate takes up.  
  
Kaelyn watches her husband sleep until morning chases away the sound of fire bellowing through the air as the Prydwen explodes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

Weaseling out from under Nate’s arm, Kaelyn lowers her feet over the side of the bed. He rolls onto his back, dragging half the blankets with him. Her skin is as sticky as the floor and twice as uncomfortable. A wet cloth alleviates the worst spots, but all she can do is find some clean clothes before slipping out to find the restroom. Upon her return Nate is halfway through pulling on his shirt so she takes the last seconds to admire the view. To her disappointment, his pants are already in place.  
  
“Morning, hon.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she laces her fingers at his nape.  
  
“Good morning.” His hands settle on her waist as he leans down to kiss her.  
  
A knock on the door earns a frustrated noise from Nate before he pulls away. Kaelyn checks her hip for a pistol that isn’t there and reluctantly opens the door.  
  
“Good, you’re awake,” Piper says. “I hate to do this, Blue, but the DC Council wants to see you.”  
  
“Is this about the mayor?”  
  
“You bet. They just want your story. Nothing too strenuous.”

Funny how this sort of thing used to be the majority of her work, but now she’s wary at the prospect of being hauled before a committee. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”  
  
“Hey.” Nate pulls her to a halt. “Are you going to consult me at all or just keep making these calls on your own?”  
  
She’s grown used to making decisions for one. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll get your input in future.”

Piper raises an eyebrow at the exchange. “I saw you yesterday but there wasn’t time with McDonough and all. So you’re with Blue, huh? Is this new or…?” The last part is accompanied by a sly look in Kaelyn’s direction that promises retribution if she’s been holding out on her.

This is never not going to be an awkward explanation, so Kaelyn might as well just get it out of the way. “Piper, you remember the part where I said my husband was shot? Turns out the wound wasn’t fatal and he’s, uh, been on ice this entire time. Alive.”

Piper’s eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. “What? You’re— you’re serious?”

Nate shifts awkwardly and coughs. “Yep. Nice to meet you, miss—”

He’s interrupted by her yelp. “ _No. Way!_ _”_ She looks Nate up and down. “Well, mister, you’ve got quite the sense of timing. Piper Wright, reporter for Publick Occurrences.”

Kaelyn and Nate make quick work of packing their belongings, then they’re ready to go. Before Kaelyn makes it three steps down the hall, Piper yanks her into a hug. “I’m happy for you, Blue. I really am. Not many people get a second chance like this.”

Kaelyn gives her a brief squeeze. “Thanks, Piper. It’s… been something of a shock. After— after losing Shaun and…”

Piper squeezes her back. “Must be hard for you both. He, uh, knows everything, right?”

They both pull back to glance at Nate, who’s loitering at the end of the hall and pretending he isn’t listening in.

“Yeah. He knows.” Enough, at least.

They pick up a quick breakfast when they pass through the market while Nate looks every which ways, still taking in the sights that do not belong in a baseball stadium.

Piper coughs to hide a giggle. “Yeah, you look like you just stumbled out of a vault. Blue Two doesn’t roll so nicely off the tongue, but it’ll have to do. I can’t believe this is really happening.”

Nate doesn’t share her amusement. “You and me both.”

Resting a hand at the small of his back, Kaelyn asks, “What about Nick? Is he being called on to testify?”

“No, and I’m not sure if it’s a sign he’s above suspicion or they’re just afraid of him.”

Kaelyn shakes her head. “Nick’s been in this city longer than their parents have been alive. They can’t possibly think his programming will switch at the drop of a hat and kill everyone.”

Piper shoves her hands in her jacket pockets. “Wish I could tell ya that fear makes sense, but it doesn’t.”

She leads the way to Diamond City Council hall, as Kaelyn realizes she has no clue where it is. Everyone knows the mayor had been the only power worth talking to in town. The rumor went so far to allege McDonough had hamstrung the council. All the better to control Diamond City himself, as has become all too clear.

Of course the council is located in the Upper Stands. Geneva sits at the front desk, having found new employment right away. Either being taken hostage is enough to clear her of any suspicion or the city is sated by McDonough’s death.

Geneva’s smile is plastic as she consults her terminal. “The council is already in session and your appointment is in half an hour. You can wait inside if you like.”

Even though it’s short notice, they still have to wait to be heard. Of all the things to survive the bombs, Kaelyn would never have guessed bureaucracy would be alive and well.

As they take their seats in the waiting areas, Kaelyn leans over to Nate. “Let me do the talking, okay?”

“Fine by me,” he says, but his expression is grim.

If the council come after her for shooting McDonough, he will stand up and take the blame. She just knows it.

The three of them take turns playing Red Menace on Kaelyn’s pip-boy, competing to beat the high score by an alleged _D-MAN THE RULER OF AWESOME_. At last an assistant scurries out of the chamber to wave them in, and Kaelyn takes a moment to straighten her jacket and smooth the wrinkles from her shirt. If she still owned any appropriate office attire, now would have been a good time for it. She can’t imagine what kind of impression she would have made in the old world, dressed in leathers and armed with a mismatch of weapons.

Even though the council table isn’t raised, it feels like the councilors are watching from on high. There are four of them, which presents a problem—and then Kaelyn remembers the late mayor would have taken the fifth seat. The assistant takes a chair in a corner beside a holotape recorder and sets up a fresh tape.

The councilors introduce themselves in order as Alfredo Garcia, Ellen Long, Justina Suarez and Thomas Meyers.

“We understand that you three were involved in the McDonough incident,” Councilor Alfredo says, peering over his glasses.

How quaint that killing a synth who had infiltrated the city’s highest office is a mere ‘incident’. Kaelyn says, “That’s correct.”

“And what cause do you have meddling in the affairs of Diamond City?”

If that’s how they want to play it. Folding her hands across her stomach, Kaelyn says, “Surely you know I frequent this city and have a vested interest in opposing the Institute. Were the situation in hand, I wouldn’t have intervened.”

Councilor Ellen’s eyes narrow at the implicit accusation, and clears her throat. “I see. Please describe the order of events as you remember them.”

“After getting treatment for Officer Danny Sullivan, we accompanied security up to the mayor’s office. I negotiated Geneva’s release, but McDonough wanted to walk free. When I said he would stand trial, he pulled a gun.”

“And which one of you killed him?”

Before Nate can speak, she demurs, “There were at least four of us who fired, councilor. Any of the wounds could have been fatal.”

Then, and only then, does Justina bother asking the most important question. “And you’re certain he was a synth?”

“By Danny Sullivan’s testimony and McDonough’s own admission, yes. If you’re not convinced, an autopsy would confirm it one way or another.”  
  
Justina leans forward in her seat. “And what of the Institute—are they truly gone? Is Publick Occurrences correct in noting your involvement?”  
  
Kaelyn folds her hands over her stomach; keeps her face even. “I have it in good authority that the Institute will no longer be the problem they once were.”

The council make a few more attempts to weasel an answer out of her, wording the question differently. With her blandest smile, she words her answers differently.

“You must understand,” Justina wheedles, her obsidian gaze too sharp to complete the image of softness, “that we have lived under the Institute’s tyranny for decades. Our own mayor was one of them. People have been afraid, and rightfully so. What can you offer to allay our concerns?”

“That the explosion at the CIT ruins was the Institute and they’ll no longer be a threat to the Commonwealth. Do you have any more questions, councilors?”

The council releases them with neither a condemnation for shooting McDonough or a thank you. Outside, Piper lets out a long breath. “That could have gone worse. I have to get back to the paper, but I’ll see you around, Blue. And Blue Two.” With a final glance in Nate’s direction, she heads to the elevator.

For their part, Kaelyn and Nate head to Mega Surgery to check on Danny. He manages a weak smile when his eyes focus on his visitors, most of the bandages hidden under blankets. He’s still too pale, his skin dull and waxy, and all too similar to another man bedridden not so long ago.  
  
“Hey there. Wanted to thank you for saving my life.”  
  
Kaelyn waves off his thanks. “Just hold on, Danny. Consider this repayment for risking your job to let me into Diamond City.”  
  
He snorts. “That was more Piper than you.”  
  
Outside Mega Surgery, they don’t get very far before Nate pulls her to a halt. “Could you go for some lunch? Because I could go for some lunch.” He jerks his thumb towards Power Noodles. “I’ll shout.”  
  
If yesterday Diamond City fell into a lull from shock, it now buzzes with the excitement of flies descending to a fresh corpse. Gossip and trade are the wares on offer in the market district, and it’s difficult to tell which prospect is drawing in more potential customers. No amount of tin sheets or moldy rugs can alleviate the thick crawl of mud churned by hundreds of feet and inches of rain into a sucking sludge. Worse is the smell, not of fresh wet earth but of sickness, waste.

Still, Kaelyn and Nate brave the extensive line to Power Noodles, the former feeding strips of jerky to Dogmeat. Valentine finds them just as they reach the protective shade of the red tarp overhead, and takes a moment to check in with Takahashi while the robot serves their lunch.  
  
They’re firmly planted at the counter, with steaming bowls of noodles when someone calls out, “’Scuse me!” A white woman with vibrant ginger hair and far too many lines around her eyes careens to a halt a short distance away. “You with the Minutemen, lady? Got the gun and the hat.”  
  
“Sure am,” Kaelyn says without feeling. “Is there a problem?”  
  
“I’m with a caravan, see, and when I passed Oberland Station they asked I send word about raider troubles in the area.”  
  
Kaelyn glances to Valentine and Nate who both make gestures of agreement. “Give us the details.”

Oberland Station hunkers on the edge of the railway: a single two-story tower in peeling white and green, looming through the trees. A dead woodland surrounds the station on three sides, while the river lies to the west, contributing the wet smells of tannin and mud. Crops grow in neat rows inside a rusted pen that would provide some protection if not for gaping holes in the seven-foot fence; now its role is purely ceremonial, marking the boundaries of their field.  
  
One of the closest farmers hails the passing travelers, waving his hat over his head. When they close in, the farmer openly eyes Kaelyn’s laser musket. “Sorry for flagging you down, stranger, but are you with the Minutemen?”

“We got word from a trader you’re asking for help. What’s the problem?”

“Raiders south of here are expanding their territory, expecting tribute from us. If our radio weren’t broken, I coulda sent a message weeks ago.”  
  
When the farmer gives them the location of the gang’s holdout—a cordoned off alley in a nearby township—that’s all Kaelyn needs. But before she’s fully turned, the farmer says, “I’ve also heard of a group of thieves wandering about. Ol’ Nazeem spied ’em crossing the edge of his farm, trying to steal his mutfruit. A good turn with the dogs chased ’em off, even with their fancy laser guns, but they’re still out there. Be careful.”  
  
“Laser weapons but no supplies?” Valentine muses. “Unwilling to get in a tangle even with superior weaponry. Or to downgrade their guns for food.”  
  
They melt into the tree line to cross-country through the woods. Boston’s tallest skyscrapers lurk due east, hunkering behind askew black tree trunks. The trees here are taller, thicker, more twisted than their northern cousins. In a woodland area that was once rife with life of all kinds, now only wild mongrels prowl between the trunks. They pass the occasional Corvega husk somehow stranded off road. Shallow ponds, marked by stones and fungi, leave the area a few steps shy of a bog.  
  
As they walk, Nate says, “This is usual for Minutemen? Modeled after the original militia in more than just aesthetics, I take it.”  
  
Kaelyn answers his questions as he fires them off, explaining their purpose and hierarchy and a little of their recent history. He chews over each answer, sometimes takes minutes to consider before asking his next question. But there’s one particular tidbit that earns an immediate response.  
  
“You were the _General?_ That’s one he—eck of a promotion. You outranked me by a long shot.”  
  
“I’m your wife, honey. I always outranked you.”  
  
He considers that, then drawls, “Yes, ma’am.”  
  
Beyond the rustle of weaving branches plied by a damp breeze and the squelch of peat, the woods are quiet. Dogmeat noses a cluster of mushrooms that pulse blue in time with a beat no human can hear, and Nate pauses to make sure he doesn’t eat anything. Then stops to inspect the glowing mushrooms himself, his expression quizzical. Kaelyn doesn’t want to know, keeps her eyes scanning the horizon. Sets off between two crooked aspens.  
  
“We’re veering west,” Nate says.  
  
“How can you tell?” Kaelyn asks.  
  
“Here.” Gripping her shoulders, he spins her around to face the way they came. “Pick two landmarks you can see. Got them?” She nods, selecting one of the Corvegas and a wizened oak, and Nate turns her again. “Now do the same on this side. While you’re walking, check your position relative to these four landmarks, and ta-da: you can walk in a straight line.”  
  
They barely walk five steps in their newfangled straight line before Dogmeat cocks his head, ears pricked, every line in his body alert.  
  
A group of people stumble down a nearby hill. Six of them, stumbling, haggard and hollow-eyed, looking everywhere and nowhere at once. They have laser pistols clutched in trembling hands. The biggest giveaway is their white uniforms stained beyond saving with Commonwealth soil.  
  
“Posture’s sloppy,” Nate assesses. “Probably inexperienced, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”  
  
“Do they even know which end to point at someone?” Valentine asks. “Still, those folks look like they’re in bad shape.”  
  
“That’s what they made synths for,” Kaelyn says. “To hold guns for them.”  
  
“And here I thought it was to scrub the floors.”

“That too.”  
  
At the base of the hill, a cry splits the air: “You!”  
  
They’ve been spotted, and it’s too late to run. Kaelyn sighs and readies her laser musket. “Great.”  
  
Provoking a confrontation is a terrible idea, but she can’t bring herself to lower her rifle and attempt to de-escalate the situation.  
  
The leader approaches, emboldened by grief and fury, his feet stumbling over uneven terrain. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You destroyed humanity’s best hope for the future!”  
  
Valentine says, “Easy there, sonny. Don’t do anything regrettable.”  
  
Kaelyn remains unmoved. If that rhetoric falling from her own son’s tongue hadn’t been enough to persuade her then, it is nothing now. “You and I have vastly different definitions of humanity.”  
  
“And this?” He throws his arms wide, encompassing the gray earth, the sickly woods, the city ruins on the horizon. “What do you expect us to do in this— this wasteland? Everything that ever mattered is gone!”  
  
Kaelyn only has a cruel smile to give. “Welcome to my world.”  
  
“How— how do you expect us to survive out here? Why relay us to this hellhole?”

“That’s not my problem.”  
  
_Promise me you_ _’ll protect them. Any... survivors._  
  
Just like that, a knot forms in Kaelyn’s chest. _Dammit._ “There’s a raider nest south of here, in the township. If you head west and follow the railway north, you should be able to avoid them.”  
  
The leader’s eyes narrow. “Why should we trust anything you say? For all I know, you’re luring us to them!”  
  
“Because you’re still alive,” Kaelyn says. “If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” _And because I made a promise to Shaun._  
  
“How very merciful of you,” he sneers, punctuated by waving his gun in her direction. Her world narrows to the muzzle aimed at her chest.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, hold it there,” Nate rumbles, tension thrumming underneath his too-careful tone. “Everybody take a deep breath.”  
  
The scientist backs up. Kaelyn doesn’t look over her shoulder, but from the pinpointed fear amongst the scientists, she can only assume he’s raised a gun. But that doesn’t stop him from biting out, “And just where is Father? How could you do that to your own son? Is he even alive, or did you leave him to die?”  
  
Just the opposite, but she has no desire to explain herself, to cut her belly wide open, in front of these people. “That’s none of your damn business.”  
  
He splutters, “None of—! My whole life, he was a part of the Institute. I knew him better than you did. How disappointed he must have been, to have a mother like you.”  
  
It’s a knife straight to the gut, coated in a hot acid that strips her nerves raw,  
  
But the growl is given voice behind her. “Don’t you _dare_. You’re the ones who took Shaun. You did this!”  
  
“I want you to remember that the Institute started it. If you’d just left my family alone...” All of a sudden, her fury runs cold. “Go. Just _go._ _”_  
  
One of the scientists at the peripheral moves first, awkward, not quite willing to show his unprotected back. The others follow, hesitant like the first skittering pebbles that precede a rockslide, but pack mentality herds them along. A blonde hesitates the longest, her scathing expression fixed on Kaelyn until someone catches her wrist and mutters something about being shot. Kaelyn watches them back up with her fingers twitching around Deliverer’s grip, waiting for the moment one of them will turn around and try to avenge their home. But her nerves stretch tighter and tighter with every passing second, without the inevitable attempt on her life to cut the straining threads loose.  
  
She doesn’t relax even when they disappear into the treeline.  
  
“Charming bunch,” Nate says, in a tone that does not suit the cavalier words at all. He reaches out, but she steps back before he can touch her. “Kaelyn—”  
  
“Let’s just go.” She does exactly that. The two men follow more slowly, from the sound of their footsteps behind her.  
  
Then Valentine ventures, “For a moment there I thought you were going to plug them full of holes.”  
  
Had she looked that furious? Kaelyn rubs two fingers over her forehead. “What would it achieve, Valentine? Besides, I made a promise to Shaun, before he...”  
  
“What did you promise him?” Nate cuts in, sharp now.  
  
“That I’d look after any survivors from the Institute. And since I don’t share their concept of mercy—if they ever had one—I’m not going to put those scientists down.”  
  
Not five minutes later, they slide down a hill to the eastbound road that leads them to a block of ruined, rotting houses that are little more than splintered walls and foundations buried under four feet of plaster and mulch. At a set of stoplights, they turn down a street to the township proper. Cars sit on the street, offering more impediment than cover. Kaelyn keeps to the weed-choked sidewalk and scans the rooftops for snipers. Apartment blocks huddle side-by-side, forming a solid wall that bends at strange angles around a three-tiered terrace. Two Pulowski shelters sit on the sidewalk with a dead feral ghoul slumped at their base. Kaelyn shoots it just to be sure, then cranks the handle on her laser musket.  
  
“No gang symbols or blockades to mark their territory,” Valentine says, low, “but I get the feeling we’re not alone.”  
  
A group of raiders round the corner at the end of the apartment block.  
  
“Contact!” Nate shouts and shoots first. One of the raiders drops.  
  
Kaelyn darts behind two cars, shouting for Dogmeat to stay with her, and glances around for more solid cover. At a shout, the raiders drop their cumbersome salvage packs and scatter. Kaelyn shoots one who’s struggling with the straps on her bag and hunches down as a hail of gunfire ricochets off the stone wall. A few bullets go straight through the car. Her heart thunders in her ears, drowning out the racket. She glances around again: Valentine and Nate are crouched behind a nearby car. Dogmeat is beside her, hackles raised, lips peeled back.  
  
Three pops from Valentine’s pistol and a charging raider falls. Another burst from Nate’s rifle halts his crawl.  
  
Kaelyn bolts for the terrace stairs behind her. Gunfire rattles in her ears.  
  
“Sonofa—” Nate leans out to fire into the encroaching raiders.  
  
She slams into the stairs. Gets her bearings. With the added height, she can spy two raiders hiding behind the lowest terrace wall and chances shooting at a raider’s head. He’s hit, and drops from sight. Someone howls.  
  
“Kaelyn! Cover Valentine!”  
  
She draws Deliverer to shoot at one of the enemies vaulting over the terrace wall to charge across the car park. With supporting fire from Nate, they put the raiders in the defensive long enough for Valentine to land in place beside her.

Two raiders charge up the lowest staircase twenty feet away, snarling. They’ve got a direct line of sight with no cover for Kaelyn and Valentine. One raider has blotches of red already staining his chest. Kaelyn unloads the rest of her magazine into him, and he careens to a halt. The other takes cover around the corner of an apartment, leaning out to fire. Two shots from Valentine and he falls.  
  
“Cover me!”  
  
She scrambles to reload Deliverer; her fingers are flighty but deft. Leaning out, she fires at any movement across the lot. A woman stumbles back, clutching her arm. The others duck away.  
  
“Clear!”  
  
Kaelyn and Valentine drop behind the wall. Reload.  
  
Nate slams back against the wall, jamming a fresh magazine into his rifle. “We need a better positi— get down!”  
  
No time to disobey. Kaelyn throws herself to the ground. Bullets spray up stone chips around her. At the other end of the alley a raider peers around a Nuka-Cola machine. She rolls to the side, grabbing her laser musket. The raider lurches back from Nate’s fire; Dogmeat drags his rifle arm down. Her three-crank shot ends him. Scrambling to her knees, Kaelyn charges to the end of the alley and shoots a raider rounding the corner.  
  
Time to flank them right back. Kaelyn creeps along the wall, one eye on the open road to her left, but the remaining raiders converge on the terraces and her men. No one has seen her yet. Dropping to one knee, she takes aim. The one gunning for Nate dies from a shot in the back, leather and skin dissolving into ash.  
  
A shout, and then something sails through the air. Lands under a nearby car.  
  
She throws herself behind the wall, arms covering her head as a burst of heat and burning light washes down the street. A clatter like pebbles thrown at a window, but sharper. Rolling onto her back, Kaelyn peeps her rifle out of cover. A raider vaulting over the trunk of a car plummets when she fires, his chest black and sizzling, landing on his neck.  
  
“Partner!” Valentine crouches beside her, eyes on the enemy. Four still moving; three injured. “That diner behind you. Bolt and we’ll distract ’em.”  
  
Kaelyn gets off one more shot, misses, and glances around. Across the road on the corner, she sees it. A diner in cheerful red and cream holds only the slumped skeletons of its last patrons. She vaults through the window, bullets and glass spraying. Dogmeat races through the gaping door. She and Valentine cover Nate as he sprints across the street, then they cover Valentine. She reloads Deliverer before shoving it back into its holster.  
  
From this protected spot, gunning down the remaining raiders has a mechanical rhythm. Fire, duck, reload. Fire. Kaelyn scans for movement; can’t find a target. Checks again.  
  
Ringing silence.  
  
A third sweep yields nothing. Kaelyn rolls off her ankles, onto her knees, gritting her teeth at stiff muscles.  
  
“Kaelyn!”  
  
She waves Nate off without much success. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving the heaviness of post-battle fugue in its place. Her ears ring and her hands ache. “I’m fine.”  
  
He reaches her side. “You’re bleeding.”  
  
She looks down to see the shrapnel lodged in her right thigh.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

Blood cannot stain leather, but it can change its texture to something wet and gleaming. Kaelyn is suddenly, terribly calm. The knowledge pierces her battle fever before the pain does. Seven pieces in all. The smallest fragments no more than chips, but the two largest pieces are about half-inch thick bits of shredded car. Plus a gash from a glancing blow.

Her trousers are split and wrinkled, giving way to the force that drove the shrapnel so unnaturally deep under her skin. A throbbing near her hip sharpens like a billowing yellow flame that refines to a white-blue jet. Seven pulse points to pound in time with her heart.

Nate catches her hands and folds them in her lap before she can touch one of the wicked little shreds. All that gives him away is the tremor in his hands when he squeezes her wrists. “Too risky to pull these out here. Sit down.” He helps her slide onto one of the intact stools, sorting through a first aid kit Kaelyn doesn’t recall giving him. “Nick, keep watch while I patch her up.”

“Will do.” Valentine moves to a corner of the diner with a good view of the intersection, a lone sentinel in the sun-bright glare streaming through broken glass.

Kaelyn is just tightening a tourniquet around her thigh when Nate hunkers down to inspect the wound, nudging Dogmeat away from her leg. Closing her eyes, she slows her breathing to something even and deep and not at all panicked. She finds the pulse of the pain that she can prepare for. It even helps, easing the tight iron bands around her chest. Breath in, hold, count. Breathe out, hold, count.  
   
Her leg is truly burning now and she shifts, planting her hands on the counter, stretching what muscles she can without jarring her leg. A stab in her arm, smaller than the others. She opens her eyes to see Nate pulling a syringe out of her arm.

He’s still talking to himself. “Need a secure place for surgery... hey, Valentine! Do you know of a nearby doctor? Or even somewhere that’s safe and reasonably sanitized?”

“Right there.” Valentine extends a skeletal finger past Kaelyn’s shoulder.  
   
Nate half-turns, and she peers around his bulk to see the billboard standing proud on the crest of the hill beyond the boundary of the rotting township. Vault-Tec always knew how to make their creations last total atomic annihilation, and despite the wear and tear of two centuries, the plastered image is familiar after seeing it every day as she went to work. A bold proclamation of safety—and a bald-faced lie.

“I don’t know about this,” she murmurs.

Valentine touches her shoulder to settle her. “There, now. We’ll get you fixed up, partner, don’t you worry. That’s the friendliest vault in the ’Wealth.”

She’d like to believe that.

“Good enough.” Sliding Kaelyn’s arm around his neck, Nate eases her to her feet. Fire shoots through in her leg, her hip, and her breaths quicken. He adjusts his grip, bending slightly so she can comfortably hook an arm around his neck while he also supports her waist. “Roof, cover and a lockable door.”

Valentine eases her satchel and rifles off her shoulder to carry, then catches her free hand to offer extra support up an eroded dirt slope that on any other day would be a gentle incline. Pain is a gnawing thing with poisoned fangs sunk into her leg, its skinny tail wrapped around her ankle while its bulk constricts her thigh under hot iron scales.  
   
The road is clear of all but debris and Dogmeat prowls just ahead of them, ears pricked. A dirt road cuts up the embankment like a blunted knife. With Nate at her right, she can’t hold or fire Deliverer, no matter how her palms itch and her fingers curl. And then clench as a loose chunk of gravel slips under her foot, jolting a white-hod rod up her leg.

“Sorry, hon,” Nate says.

She keeps her breathing steady. It helps, a little.  
   
The knoll is crowned by a broken fence; a rust brown tiara. A van sits in the center of the yard, while abandoned crates and prefabs dot the dirt-bare surrounds. To their right the rocky crest of the hill looms. A vacant black hole leads down, down, to Vault 81. They step into the cool, sunless dark.

Her ears ring low and hollow.

The catwalk rattles under their feet, echoing off the walls until the tunnel opens into a cavern. The great vault door stands in all its nuclear-resistant bulk.

Kaelyn unwinds her arm from around Nate’s neck, accepting his hands encircling her waist from behind to take some of her weight off her leg. Her right foot perches, ginger, on the ball of her foot. Plugging her pip-boy’s remote link, it takes only a few moments to connect and prime the controls. The button protector flicks back, with a _fwip_ that echoes in this gaping stone maw. A fresh wave of pain snakes up her hip, and Kaelyn bashes her fist into the red square button. A bright target she cannot miss even with watering eyes.  
Lights flash and warnings blare as the door begins to cycle open.

Her mouth is dry. “You’re sure about this, Nick?”

“Sure am. Because here, they don’t shoot on sight.”

Her stomach drops. “Wait, you mean Vault 81 is—?”

The vault door groans and halts with a shuddering boom.

“ _Hold it right there._ ” A speaker on the control panel crackles. “ _This is Vault 81 security. I don_ _’t know how you got your hands on a working pip-boy, but you better start talking.”_

When Kaelyn can find her voice, she says, “We’re from Vault 111.”

“ _Vault 111? Haven_ _’t heard of that one yet_.” Disbelief is bell-note clear even through the crackling speaker, and a suspicious edge undercuts his next words. “ _What sort of business are you looking to take care of in 81?_ ”

“Please,” Nate breaks in, “my wife is injured. We’re looking for a safe place to treat her.”

“ _Is that so? And you expect me to believe_ _— oh. Overseer!_ ”

A shiver runs through Kaelyn. Nate’s hands tighten around her waist. But this voice is brisk and female, not that placating voice urging her into Bay C. “ _Who is it, Edwards?_ ”

“ _Ma_ _’am, some Commonwealth travelers. Claiming they’ve got wounded. Not our usual traders._ ”

A pause. Then a crackle in that split second before the speaker activates. “ _Let me speak to them. Sorry about that. Officer Edwards is just doing his job. I_ _’m sure you can understand our need for caution. You say someone is injured?_ ”

Nate leans past her to the microphone. “Yes, ma’am, on both counts. My wife has shrapnel stuck in her leg. Please, from one vault dweller to another, I’m asking for your help.”

It’s the security officer, of all people, who backs him up. “ _Excuse me, ma_ _’am. Before you arrived, they said they were from Vault 111, and they’re in possession of a working pip-boy._ ”

“ _Is that so?_ ”

Kaelyn sways in the silence, feels a flush of heat from the crown of her head shiver down to the soles of her feet. The empty space beyond the railing yawns, dust motes fluttering like vast schools of fish under the too-harsh lights.

“ _I_ _’m going to allow it. Edwards, open the door and make the announcement. Inform medical they have a patient incoming._ ” To Nate: “ _We_ _’ll meet you at the entrance_.”

“Thank you.”

The speaker crackles into silence for the final time.

“Excuse me.” And Nate bends down to secure an arm around her knees and lift her into his arms, over-the-threshold style.

Clutching at his jacket, Kaelyn fights the white stars bursting across her eyes. “I can walk, Nate.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” He navigates the stairs with care, and the interior catwalk has slid into place by the time he reaches the top. No matter the soothing heartbeat she can feel where she’s pressed against his chest, her spine remains rigid.

The sign overhead looms in unnerving yellows, welcoming home its dwellers with a thumbs up and a wink. Three people wait at the end of the catwalk: two guards in light body armor and a shapely woman. All wearing vault suits.

The woman steps forward, her face composed but for a flicker in her brow. “Gwen McNamara. Overseer.” Her gaze is drawn, inexorably, to Kaelyn, sweeping over her for— “Ah. Right this way.”

One of the guards half-moves to intercept Valentine before he can follow. “Ma’am, what about her, uh, friend here?”

Kaelyn tries to squirm, but there’s no way she can plant her feet and refuse to move. “We can leave if you won’t let Nick in.”

Before Valentine can protest, the Overseer nods. “I’ll allow it. Security is already extra mindful as it is. If they’ve lived this long in the Commonwealth, I’m sure they’ve picked their friends wisely. Follow me, all of you.”

Nate follows Overseer McNamara to the right, where the corridor stretches— no. It’s too short, terminating in an elevator. Security guards on either side. A man in a lab coat—too white, too pristine—mans a station near the elevator. Sensors lining the walls blare as Nate carries her between them.

“No radiation,” the lab coat man says. “Remarkable.”

Kaelyn tugs on her husband’s collar. “Nate. I don’t like this.”

He settles her more firmly in his arms and presses a kiss on the top of her head. “Shh, honey. It’ll be all right.”

“That’s what you said last time.”  
   
He flinches. She only knows because she can feel it. But it doesn’t crack his resolve.

They’re in the elevator now, which is dark and cramped. A dank chill pervades the air, even with everyone squeezing into corners to give Nate as much room as possible to avoid bumping her leg.

She blinks and realizes the Overseer is talking. “—we’ve never encountered a fellow vault dweller. Is this Vault 111 you mentioned still operational?”

“It’s a graveyard,” Kaelyn whispers, ragged. “They’re all dead...”

“I’m sorry. What happened there?” McNamara’s sympathy is low and soft and genuine.

Kaelyn presses her forehead against Nate’s shoulder. “They had us cryogenically frozen in these pods. But the Inst— we could only last as long as life support did...”

At this Overseer McNamara says the only thing that could endear her to Kaelyn: “All those lives lost due to some malfunction? That’s unacceptable.”

 _It wasn_ _’t a malfunction_ , she wants to say. _It was murder._

“You’re damn right it is,” Nate rumbles.

She only knows the doors have opened because cool air dries the sweat on her face. She can barely feel her foot; only the throbbing, pounding fire infecting her flesh, poisoning her blood.

Nate jostles her and she cracks her eyes open. He peers down at her, tense and so very afraid. “Stay awake for me, hon.”

She does, because he asks. The part of her that’s a survivor, that learned the Wasteland’s every lesson, knows that to sleep now is to die. The Overseer leads the way at a trot, Nate on her heels, and Kaelyn can’t get a good look at the rest of the vault.  
   
Two doctors in white coats wait in the clinic. Nate deposits her on a gurney at their direction, but Kaelyn clutches at him when he tries to pull away.  
   
“Shh. It’s gonna be okay.” He brushes her hair out of her face.  
   
Something pricks her hand, and she realizes a doctor inserted an IV. It’s a blur of yellow lights and blue figures and white noise, and then finally the black swallows her.

—

Clean sheets beneath her. Cool air made crisp by astringent. Her breaths are loud, her heart muted. The reactor core hums just below the edge of hearing. In the dark spaces between sleeping and waking, she feels and knows but cannot think.

Shuffling nearby. A doctor hovering on Shaun’s orders? She tries to roll away from the Institute doctor, but her body is thick and tired and uncooperative. Her hips are too heavy—restrained? Another variable controlled, convinced as always that they know best.

She doesn’t realize she whimpered until a gentle voice says, “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

She knows that voice. Needs to know that voice.

When she peels open her eyes, it isn’t the Institute’s pristine ceiling above her head. The dim lights are gentle on her eyes, dressing the room in soft shadows. The architecture is square and blocky, not sleek and curved. Light weasels its way through curtains, of all things. The Institute never had any curtains.  
   
Nate is backlit, his broad shoulders blocking out the soft glow. And beside him is another familiar silhouette.

“There you are.” Valentine leans down and she tries and fails to catch the brim of his hat in greeting. He plucks her hand out of the air and lowers it onto the blankets.

Nate finds a smile for her. “Rise and shine, hon. Have I ever told you how beautiful your eyes are?”

She flicks her gaze around the room, trying to make sense of it. Not the Institute. Not the Institute. “Where... are we?”

“We’re in Vault 81—”

“Vault?” She lurches upward, heart crashing, needing to move, to escape—and a heavy hand falls across her collarbones. Pins her down.

“Easy, easy. It’s all right.” He keeps up the stream of soothing words, stroking his thumb over the jumping pulse in her neck. Coaxing her frantic heartbeat, like a kicking rabbit caught under a wolf’s paw, to slow. His other hand wanders to her fingers clenched in the sheets to trace the raised tendons. “They let us in. They helped you. Remember?”

She shakes her head and the world lurches, twisting her stomach with nausea. One of her hands clutches the wrist of his hand that anchors her. “Can’t trust them. Can’t trust Vault-Tec.”

Nate coaxes her fingers to loosen their grip on the blanket, to accept his hand as a substitute. Sliding his fingers through hers, he rests his jaw against their entwined hands. “You’re safe here.”

She whispers, “Can I have a gun?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, unthinking, and when the question registers he bequeaths her with a fresh frown, running a callused thumb across her knuckles. “Of course not. You can hardly see straight, let alone shoot straight. You don’t need one.”

She shakes her head back and forth again.

“You looked after me when I was wounded. Let me return the favor.” When she isn’t quite convinced, he runs his fingers along her hairline. His eyes glimmer, dark in the low lights. “Trust me?”

After a moment, she nods.

In the darkness, she sees him smile. He presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “Get some rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

Thus lulled, she drifts when her eyelids are too heavy to hold open.

—

Her next awakening involves less panic. Lumps of pain stab in time with her heart, twisting down to her calf and up her spine. Lights sear her eyes, and it takes minutes before her eyelids stop snapping shut at the first lance of brightness. Longer still before the world resolves into something recognizable.

This time Valentine occupies the chair beside her with Dogmeat’s head resting on his knee while Nate is sprawled in a bed behind them, dead to the world. He still favors his right side, even in sleep, and might for the rest of his life.

“Morning, sunshine,” Valentine smiles. “How’s the leg?”  
   
“Meds are wearing off.”

Movement across the room. The hydraulics in the door hiss as they part, and a woman holding a tray enters. There’s a flash of blue and yellow underneath her white lab coat. She perks up when she sees Kaelyn. “It’s good to finally see you awake. I’m Rachel. Dr Forsythe will be in shortly. For now, eat what you can; I’m sure your husband will be happy to clean up any leftovers.”  
   
Even though she wears a vault suit underneath her lab coat, Rachel has a soothing bedside manner as she checks Kaelyn’s vital signs. It also helps that Valentine sits beside her, at ease, murmuring something to Dogmeat.

When Nate wakes up, he does indeed demolish Kaelyn’s leftovers—servings of porridge and toast so large Rachel must have brought enough for two—and pulls up a seat next to Valentine. He holds her hand, leaning in closer when she presses herself against him, letting out a long, slow breath. “I’m here, hon.” He takes to kneading the tension out of her hand. “You aren’t letting your guard down.”

She pitches her voice low enough that no one but Nate and Valentine can hear. “I don’t get it. I’ve never seen a working vault. They were all experiments. Every last one of them.”

“Tell me.”

So she does. Vault 114, unfinished and controlled by an Overseer incompetent to the point of absurdity. Its dwellers selected from the elite of Boston, for whom such living conditions were literally beneath them. Valentine chips in on occasion with details she’s forgotten, like the Overseer’s taste for Abraxo. Vault 75, which admitted only children to torture in a supersoldier program that didn’t end with them being cast to the surface to fight, but with them being harvested for their genome and disposed of. Only for the cycle to begin anew with a fresh batch of subjects.

Nate absorbs her explanation, quiet and dark-eyed. The hand not entwined with hers is curled into a fist on his knee. “I’ll keep a look out. I promise.”

Funny how it’s a little easier to breathe after that.

While the doctors encourage her to sit up as soon as she can stay awake for five minutes, it takes another two days of being a stimpak pincushion before they permit her to stand up. The tetanus tests come back negative, to the relief of all. In the meantime, Valentine and Nate attempt to teach her exclusive cop and soldier variants of various card games, but her leg throbs underneath the dulling blanket of meds and her gray matter feels like it’s been strained and fluffed out into cotton wool, so she can’t parse the numbers or symbols. Dogmeat rescues her by jumping on the bed and sitting on the cards. He earns extra belly rubs for that.

Overseer McNamara stops by one evening. She doesn’t linger after ascertaining that their patient is healing and talking with Doctor Forsythe at his desk, out of earshot. No matter how Kaelyn phrases her questions, Nate and Valentine insist they’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.

On the third day, Rachel dusts off a pair of crutches and demonstrates their proper use. Kaelyn swings a lap around the clinic under her watchful gaze—and almost trips over Dogmeat. Crouching down, Nate distracts him with a belly rub until Kaelyn gets the hang of it and Rachel clears her for walking, provided she respects her body’s limits and doesn’t leave the vault.

After a short recovery nap, Kaelyn insists on dressing herself. Nate shoots her a look that promises he’ll bat aside the privacy curtains at the first noise of struggle, but he still respects her desire for autonomy. Her clothes have been laundered and someone even mended the numerous splits in her trouser leg. She runs her fingers over the fresh seams. Sewed shut just like her skin.

“We match,” she murmurs, admiring the fairly neat stitches, and the thought is funnier than it should be. The sewed portions don’t pull the fabric too badly. If only she could say the same for the stitches in her flesh. Wriggling into her pants is a task despite lying down, and her leg gives a warning twinge that sharpens to a knifing pain if she moves too fast.  
   
When she achieves victory over her trousers, her shirt proves to be a less formidable foe with its easy-to-secure buttons. Nate handles her socks and shoes, and she’s glad to avoid challenging the dull throb behind her eyes whenever she leans over. Valentine holds out her crutches, and Kaelyn settles her weight, experimental, until she feels ready to brave what lies on the other side of the door.

At every turn, Vault 81 is as tired and worn as the rest of the Commonwealth. Its atmosphere is akin to someone who has passed over-tired to the point of inexplicable energy. Almost every dweller is occupied in some kind of upkeep—mopping floors, fixing broken technology, standing watch. This vault is far larger than 111, with at least two floors and large chambers connected by short corridors. Combined with consistent, even lights, the vault’s awful color scheme lends it a relaxed, homey feel.

“How’s a place like this survive out here?” Valentine wonders.

That’s the question.

Residents watch them pass by: security because it’s their job, and everyone else because they’re nosy. Kaelyn fields the most concern, Nate fields the most curiosity, and Valentine the most caution.

A boy detaches from his group of friends to chase after them, which is no difficult feat given her rather pathetic shuffle. He is a vault dweller in miniature, down to a child-size vault suit and a small pip-boy equipped with adjustable straps to fit a growing boy’s wrist. Under the lights, his brown hair is highlighted with auburn.

Her breath catches. He looks nothing like Shaun. And yet.

And yet.

Kaelyn leans into Nate’s side and pretends it’s for support. Pretends its for a bout of dizziness rather than a case of heartache.

The boy gives them a wide smile imbued with ten-year-old cheekiness. “Are you guys really from the Commonwealth?”

“We sure are,” Nate answers, sliding one hand, unseen, to the small of Kaelyn’s back. His smile is friendly. Wistful.

“Wow,” he says, awed. “I’ve never met anyone from the Commonwealth before. Are you really a robot?” The last part is directed towards Valentine.

“Synth, actually,” he answers, with more patience than he might otherwise have. No matter his remarkable tolerance for what is no doubt an old line of questioning, recent Institute-related events and the surge of synth paranoia have no doubt left him edgy.

“Thought maybe you might want someone to show you around.” He bounces on the balls of his feet as he looks up at them with big brown eyes. “Just five caps.”

“Oh no,” Kaelyn breaks in, her voice low and thick from med-x and sleep. “I’m not falling for that one again. You can give us a tour if you’d like, but I’m not paying you.” At Nate’s slanted look, she says, “Nothing’s free at Bunker Hill.”

“Okay, okay,” the boy moans. “Boy, you’re a real cheapskate.”

“She knows how to drive a hard bargain,” Nate agrees with far more fondness.

The boy leads them to a double glass window that looks into a supply room, where a woman is wiping down the counter. Alexis has a soft, worn look; dust from her ancient collection of supplies has settled into the lines of her face. Austin—as he tells them once he realizes he hasn’t introduced himself—gives them the rundown not only on each point of interest in the vault, but also who is assigned to what job and whether he likes them or not.

Vault 81, in stark contrast to its neighboring vaults, is disturbingly mundane. It’s equipped with all the basic facilities: Depot, Overseer’s office, bathrooms, even a hairdresser.

Austin often gets sidetracked as he leads them around. “I bet you’ve killed a lot of strange things. Oh! And raiders. I bet you’ve fought a lot of raiders too.”

Kaelyn can’t answer. Her gaze is drawn to Nate, who looks back at her with a matching expression. Eyes pinched and shadowed, mouth pressed into a thin line. Once upon a time, she used to watch his face change like this—sometimes in response to questions about his service, sometimes without any prompting—and wonder why. She doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

Valentine rescues them both. “Sure, the Commonwealth has its dangers, but there’s more to it than that.”

In the diner the elderly Summersets give a warm welcome. Along the way they learn that Austin isn’t related to his grandmother, who runs the hydroponics lab, and that his parents died when he was young. His blase attitude about his parents has Kaelyn squeezing her eyes shut.

Did Shaun once look like this, parading through the Institute with full liberty once the scientists had no more use for their specimen? Did Shaun once sound like this, blurting out to anyone and everyone that his parents died when he was little, proclaiming some elderly scientist to be his parent instead?

It’s easier to hold on with the meds providing a fog to dampen her emotions. She doesn’t fall over crying in the middle of the mess hall, which is something.

By the time they return to the cafeteria, Kaelyn is sweating and her armpits ache and her hands are sore. She’s still waiting for the catch to this place. Nate sits her down and fetches two lunch trays while Valentine oh-so-casually drops into place beside her. Austin, meanwhile, has darted over to a girl sitting beside her tired mother, and snags his friend’s wrist to pull her to their table.

Erin, as Austin introduces her, is equally enamored with the Commonwealth travelers and her curiosity surrounding Valentine overcomes any caution. When Dogmeat slinks out from under the table to nose her hand, she jolts as if struck by a sudden idea. Peering up the visitors, she asks, “Excuse me, have any of you seen my cat? His name is Ashes and he’s gray all over.”

Nate drums his fingers against his knee. “You know, I thought I saw something bolt past when we got into the vault, but I was a little distracted at the time.”

“He left the vault? Oh no. Can you bring him back? Please? No one else would step foot outside to find him.”

“Easy there. I can go out and take a look when I get a moment.” Nate coaxes out of Erin her best guess on where her cat might be and gives another promise that he’ll do what he can, when he can. His gaze strays in Kaelyn’s direction, and the cause of his hesitation becomes clear.

Kaelyn puts on a brave face. “No time like the present. Take Dogmeat. He’s got the best nose in the Commonwealth. Erin, do you have anything that belongs to Ashes? Something that would have his scent, like a blanket.” She hasn’t missed the way Nate has been absently picking at a loose thread in his trousers and shifting his weight from time to time. He’s antsy and they both know it.

Erin runs up the stairs, calling over her shoulder that she’ll be back.

“Want some company on the surface?” Valentine asks, then glances towards Kaelyn. “Unless you’d rather I stayed put?”  
   
“We have a missing cat case, detective,” she says, and despite her words there’s no humor to it. “You two keep each other safe up there.”

Nate agrees with a nod. “Always happy to have someone watching my back.” He examines Kaelyn in one long sweep. “Austin, my man, come here for a second.” He leads the boy out of hearing range and crouches down to talk to him.

“That can only spell trouble,” Valentine says.

Kaelyn agrees, but the wool stuffed between her ears make it difficult for her to remember why that would be a bad thing. So she lets her eyes close and leans into Valentine’s side. His jacket is soft under her cheek.

“With some rest, you’ll be right as rain,” he says into her hair.

Kaelyn makes a wordless noise that could be assent. But he isn’t looking for a response, isn’t looking for conversation, and that’s all right.

Rising to his full height, Nate ruffles Austin’s hair before making his way back to their table. Erin returns with a jumper coated in gray hairs and Dogmeat buries his nose into the fabric, muzzle twitching and tail swishing.

“We going?” Valentine eases her upright, but doesn’t let go until he’s convinced she can support herself. “If you’re gonna get some rest, I recommend a bed. The floor ain’t comfortable.”

“’M tired of sleeping.” A sentiment which doesn’t make much sense upon reflection, but Valentine doesn’t laugh at her.

Nate reclaims her attention by resting his hands on her shoulders. “How about you get a haircut?”

The last time she had a haircut, it had been to hack off singed ends with rusty scissors. Now her hair falls in lank little locks around her nape, just long enough to get in her eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, hon, but you could do with a trim.” When she doesn’t respond, not even to rise to the bait, Nate deflates with a sigh. “Honey. I know a haircut feels like the least important thing in the world right now. Believe me, I _know_. Remember how you had to wrangle me into the barber’s chair after I came home?”

Oh, she remembers all right. Without regs to dictate his appearance, his personal grooming habits had been abysmal in those first months of retirement. Kaelyn raises an eyebrow, giving a pointed look towards his own hair that to this day is secured in a casual bun. “I remember.”

“This is me returning the favor.” Ducking down to kiss her cheek, he pulls back with an encouraging smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Love you, honey. I’ll be back.”

Her own affirmation is quiet but no less sincere, and since she cannot walk them to the entrance she settles for watching them ascend the stairs and disappear into the elevator.

“Eww,” Austin gags. “Why are grown ups so gross?”

She doesn’t sigh, but neither does she smile.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

Austin leads her towards one of the windowed rooms on the ground floor, babbling all the while. “Do you like your hair? I like mine. I hate combing it, though. Gran makes me comb it. I bet you don’t have to comb your hair.”  
  
Horatio, the barber, looks up from his magazine when they enter. “Austin, your hair is a mole rat’s nest— ah, I was hoping you’d stop by.”  
  
Kaelyn tenses. “’Scuse me?”  
  
“I know from experience the Commonwealth shows no mercy when it comes to hair.” His expression becomes pained as he looks her over. “Your hair is a _disaster_. You have to let me fix it.”  
  
His words register several moments later. “Wait, you’ve been outside the vault?”  
  
“Quincy, born and raised.”  
  
That’s what allows her to trust him handling scissors around her neck. Kaelyn hands over her caps and settles in the chair, all the while mulling over how a surfacer could have secured a place in the vault. Austin steals one of Horatio’s comics and plops onto the stool next to her, spinning his seat around with his feet.  
  
“You said you were from Quincy?”  
  
Horatio secures the sheet around her shoulders. “Sure did. Looks like I was one of the lucky ones, too. Last I heard, Gunners had taken her over.”  
  
Ah. “A few people managed to get out. They’re my new neighbors, in fact.” If she neglects to mention that twenty survivors were whittled down to five, well, it wouldn’t do any good for him to know. Her tone remains flat when she says, “The ones responsible are dead. I can promise you that much.”  
  
She doesn’t remember their faces, only how they died. The three leaders in their power armor, modified to match the raiders’ rusted and raw aesthetic. At first she hadn’t even realized where she, Valentine and Dogmeat had wandered into. Only once she’d cracked open a terminal in a well-equipped garage and read Sturges’ old entries had she known.  
  
“Won’t bring Quincy back, but that’s something.”  
  
Horatio washes and combs out her hair, muttering about mole rat nests, and picks up a pair of slender scissors. While he attempts to trim her hair into something civilized, Kaelyn steers the conversation towards local happenings but Horatio only has mundane gossip: Holt Combes cheating on his wife, one of the maintenance boys apparently sneaking jet, and of course the mysterious fellow vault dwellers, one of whom is currently going through the clinic’s supply of med-x.  
  
His hands are quick, solicitous, touching her only where necessary, and soon enough he is crouching down to her eye level to check both sides of her hair are of equal length. “Isn’t that better?”  
  
Kaelyn cards her fingers through her hair, experimental, tugging at the neatened ends. It’s now tamed and presentable, damp ends curling around her throat. It’s a far cry from the elegant chestnut waves that once bobbed against her collarbones, and still too short to be secured in a functional bun. She might need to spare some bobby pins for their intended use.  
  
Seeing that Horatio is finished, Austin all but drags Kaelyn out the door, and she calls a thank you over her shoulder. Only when they return to the cafeteria, Austin stops and pulls her into a hiding place behind the stairs. Kaelyn scans the room, alert for anything that dares to threaten this boy. At the cafeteria tables, a woman starts rounding up the kids to herd them down one of the corridors.  
  
Austin sighs and scuffs his feet on the scratched tiles. “I bet you didn’t have to go to school.” Envy colors his tone a deep green.

Ah.  
  
“I did, in fact, have to go to school. All kids had to.” And when she was in grade school, she didn’t appreciate fun-ruining adults telling her to be grateful, so she doesn’t mention the children on the surface who grow up without education. “I don’t want to make you late.”  
  
“But I can’t go to class. Someone has to look out for you. You’ve got crutches and everything!”  
  
Three guesses who put the boy up to it. “Nice try. What if I come with you? Will your teacher mind if I sit up back? Or I can head downstairs to the clinic.”  
  
Realizing there’s no escape for him, Austin concedes with such grumpy reluctance Kaelyn’s mouth twitches. He sets a slow pace—so she can keep up, he claims—and follows the teacher herding her students out of the atrium.  
  
Kaelyn is struck by an idea that almost stops her mid-stride. “Hey, Austin. I forgot something at the diner. You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”  
  
He hesitates a moment, frowning up at her, but then his expression brightens into acceptance. “Okay. You know where the school is now, thanks to me.”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t look back, swinging on her crutches with the purposeful stride—if a little hindered—of someone who knows where she’s going, so nobody gives her more than a cursory look. Security watches her with a wary eye and there’s a muttered, “So you’re the reason patrols are doubled.”  
  
Instead, she pokes around.  
  
Austin’s tour has already put most of the vault on display, along with the extensive repair work cluttering the corridors. Kaelyn passes two young mechanics repairing a burst pipe in the wall, and after a moment’s struggle, she chooses not to disturb them. In the diner, one woman makes the mistake of remarking in hushed tones to Kaelyn, “I’ve never seen a synth before. It’s kind of... creepy.”  
  
“ _He_ is one of the most kind-hearted people you’ll ever meet. Plus he’s a detective. Can’t go wrong with that.” She doesn’t stop moving, unwilling to be bogged down by the same tired debate of personhood, not now, not when she’s in the death spirals of her suspicion.  
  
In the upper level of the atrium, success. The head mechanic, for one, is more than happy to procrastinate his work by responding to her probing.  
  
“I’ve never seen a functioning vault before. But you’ve been living here for two hundred years—the place has to be in decline.”  
  
“In decline?” He snorts, incredulous, swiping a thick hand over his bald crown, and she thinks she made a misstep until he continues, “You must be one of those politically correct types. Old 81 here, she’s a straight up wreck.” He explains how the ‘old gal’ has been finding parts to break at the most inconvenient moments. Kaelyn listens, making the appropriate hums and nods to keep him talking, hoping he’ll mention something substantial. But from his easy rambling—no suspicious pauses, no backtracking, no signs of internal editing—she learns only that the vault’s deterioration has accelerated in the last few years. “Been going through tools like they were going outta style. If you’ve got any on you, I’ll happily take ‘em off your hands.”  
  
“My screwdriver is off the table,” she answers without thinking. “But if I come across any tools on the surface, I can bring them your way.”  
  
Seeing as she’s tarried long enough to stretch the plausibility of her excuse, Kaelyn finds the classroom and curses every step in the staircase along the way. Stepping into a classroom that’s still intact offers a certain relief that somewhere the world still works as it should. Even if half the desks are empty.  
  
“Do you mind if I visit for a bit? I won’t distract your class, I promise.”  
  
“Oh! You’re one of those new travelers.” Miss Katy waves at the many vacant desks when Kaelyn asks if she can sit in. “Of course! Have a seat.”  
  
Kaelyn eases onto a nearby desk and balances her crutches against the chair. The kids stare and murmur until Miss Katy sets them a series of sums on the chalkboard. When the class is occupied, hunched over their desks, pencils scratching like the dry, rhythmless noise of swaying leaves, she skirts the room to stand next to Kaelyn.  
  
“It’s a good class you’ve got,” Kaelyn murmurs.  
  
“When they behave,” she responds, but her tone is fond as she watches her students. “My kids would love to hear about anything you’ve done out in the Commonwealth. If you feel up to it, would you mind talking to my class about life on the surface?  
  
Kaelyn is caught flat-footed. “That... depends. What kind of stories are you looking for?”  
  
“Nothing too violent. I’m sure they’ll have lots of questions, though. Thank you so much!”  
  
She doesn’t know if she has anything worth imparting to a new generation. By virtue of living in a vault, they probably know more about pre-war life than the average surfacer. But Austin will be thankful for a distraction from schoolwork.

After they’ve completed their sums, Miss Katy gathers their attention. “Children, listen up. We have a guest today, who is going to tell us stories about the Commonwealth.” It’s hard to tell who is more pleased: Miss Katy, thrilled to provide an outside perspective for her students, or Austin, relieved from schoolwork.  
  
Kaelyn gives them what news passes through the ‘appropriate for children’ filter: that the Commonwealth has experienced some rough times recently, but things are looking up for the first time in decades. The kids pick up right away that she’s doing some internal editing and fidget in their seats.  
  
Of course, Austin has to ask: “Have you ever fought a deathclaw?”  
  
Their bubbly eagerness is dissonant against adrenaline-soaked scraps of memory featuring slashing claws and a hideous roar.  
  
Kaelyn flounders, her gaze flicking to the teacher. “Uh, wouldn’t you rather hear about the time I fought a—” _Come on, think,_ “—mole rat?”  
  
The students are less than impressed.  
  
“My dad says mole rats are nothing more than pests,” Erin says from her spot in the front row, next to Austin.  
  
Kaelyn holds out for all of ten seconds against a barrage of children begging, “Please? Please, will you tell us?”  
  
At the front of the room, Miss Katy mouths, _Not too violent._  
  
“All right. Fine.” She settles herself more firmly on the desk amidst cheers, drawing in a careful breath at the sharp twinge in her thigh. Taking a moment to sanitize those stained recollections. “I’ll tell you about the first deathclaw I fought—”  
  
“You mean you’ve fought more than one? Wow, that is so cool!”  
  
Kaelyn fixes Austin with a look that remains a few steps too shy of stern. “If you keep interrupting me, I can’t tell the story.” After his quick apology, too excited to be properly contrite, she continues, “It started in Concord. My friend Preston is with the Minutemen—you know who they are, don’t you?” At their bobbing nods, she proceeds to gloss over her terror, freshly thawed into the rotting bones of what used to be her world. Gloss over the first kills she ever made, that she did little more in that first fight than act as a distraction for Preston’s devastating aim. That her throat had been raw and her hands shook before even reaching the survivors’ nook in the museum. Having to walk through still-functioning displays honoring the USA’s soldiers when her veteran husband was cold in the vault.

Instead she plays up Preston’s heroism, plays up finding the suit of power armor, plays up the earth-shuddering boom when she jumped off the roof. “And then Preston and I kept shooting until the deathclaw was dead.”  
  
A wet nose brushes her fingers and she starts. Dogmeat peers up at her, ears slightly back. Stroking the wrinkles on his forehead, Kaelyn looks towards the door. Filling the space in the doorway are Nate and Valentine. But no matter the disgruntled bundle of gray fur trying to squirm out of Nate’s hands, he only has eyes for Kaelyn.  
  
She feels colder, all of a sudden.  
  
If the sudden appearance of Dogmeat garners excited remarks of _doggy!_ then Erin’s shriek of delight at seeing Ashes shatters any notion of class time. Nate has to drop Ashes or have his knuckles bitten with all the frantic force of one furious cat who bolts straight for Erin.  
  
The girl sweeps the bundle of purring gray fur into her arms. “Ashes! You found him! Thanks, sir! I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.”  
  
Impressively, Miss Katy regains control of her class with a few deft words. Once Dogmeat sits by Kaelyn’s feet and Ashes at Erin’s, both out of petting range, the students settle into something akin to good behavior.  
  
Nate coughs once, awkward. “Sorry, miss, for distracting your class.”  
  
Miss Katy only smiles. “You’re lucky. Today we’ve been listening to stories from the surface. The two of you are more than welcome to join us. We’d love to hear any stories you’d like to share.”  
  
Of course, the appearance of a rather unique synth captures immediate attention, without a drop of the fear that burdens so many adults. To Vault 81, the Institute is nothing more than a worrying rumor. Perhaps security believed the Institute couldn’t breach a vault.

Valentine handles their questions with aplomb.  
  
_Are you a robot?_ “I’m a detective. As well as a synth, yeah.”  
  
_My dad says robots are evil._ “Not always so. Or even mostly so. The folks that worked for the Institute did some evil things, but plenty of us just want a normal life.”  
  
_Do you have laser eyes?_ “Now that would have been a great feature. Sadly, no.”  
  
While Valentine leans against the wall, answering questions as quickly as the kids can fire them, Nate ambles through the rows of empty desks to lean beside Kaelyn. She grips the wooden edges of the desk, gouged from generations of bored children scratching their marks into the surface, and doesn’t look up at him. For his part, he folds his arms across his chest and chuckles at some of the zanier questions thrown at Valentine. His presence is close enough to warm the air but not so close that she can’t breathe, not so close that he would accidentally brush against her. His attention remains fixed on the class’s antics as if nothing is wrong—it wears away her unease with more effectiveness than any manifest attempts at comfort.  
  
Miss Katy offers Nate a chance to share his own stories, but he demurs with an apologetic look. “I’m afraid my wife here is the better storyteller.”  
  
Austin turns his big brown eyes to Kaelyn. “Aw, just one more story? Pretty please?”  
  
Kaelyn is ready to defer to Miss Katy, who raises an eyebrow. “Remember your manners. They’re our guests here.”  
  
“But he said please!”  
  
Nate snickers and says, low enough that only Kaelyn can hear, “That’s the magic word.”  
  
“Hush. Don’t encourage them.”  
  
When Miss Katy grants her permission—and frankly, any hesitation on her part seems more out of consideration for her guests than any lack of eagerness on her own part—Kaelyn runs through her memory for child-appropriate stories. The list is frightfully small.  
  
“What happened to your leg?” one of the girls asks.  
  
Her hands clench around the edge of the desk, white-knuckled. Nothing more than the inevitable aftermath of violence. Nothing more than another clash with raiders. “That’s not a good story.”  
  
While Miss Katy reigns in her class’s disappointment with the reminder that injuries are not fun, Nate covers Kaelyn’s hand with his own.  
  
Clearing her throat, she says, “All right. You laughed at mole rats, but how about a mirelurk?”  
  
Leaning against the wall, Valentine tries to hide his amusement.  
  
At the class’s groans and sighs, she has to smile. “Just wait. It’s better than it sounds. If you know about the Minutemen, do you also know that they once had a castle? Fort Independence. The biggest castle in all the Commonwealth.”  
  
The children can’t help but chatter: “that is so cool!” and “did it have a moat?”  
  
“To a fashion. It’s bordered by the sea, so they have this great ocean view.” By chance, Kaelyn glances around and sees a map of Massachusetts pinned on the wall. “Hon, could you grab that—yes, thanks. The Castle is right over...” It takes her a moment to find it. Holding up the map so the kids can see, she points to Castle Island. “Here. Now, the Castle was abandoned a long time ago. There was a legend that a monster rose out of the sea and attacked the castle.” By this point, she’s starting to get into the retelling.  
  
“I’ll bet it was just mirelurks,” a black-haired boy in the second row moans.  
  
Oh, she’s enjoying this story a lot more. It only takes a raised eyebrow to quell any further interruptions. “It was Preston’s idea to retake the Castle so the Minutemen could have a base of their own. We stepped into the courtyard, and wall to wall was nothing but mirelurk nests. So we cleared up the mess as best we could. And then, Preston and I were standing on the battlements when we felt the whole world rumble. “  
  
She pauses for effect.  
  
“The ground shook and the sea churned. And then, out of the water rose a giant creature as tall as the walls. The mirelurk queen. We ran all around the courtyard that afternoon, and hid inside where she couldn’t swipe at us with those claws of hers. But we won in the end. They’re still eating seafood for every meal, last I heard.”  
  
“No way!”  
  
“Come on. How is that less believable than me killing a deathclaw?” _On my second night out of the vault, when I had never killed anything before that day_. “It was a mirelurk queen the size of the atrium.”  
  
“Radiation exposure can cause animals to grow to extraordinary sizes,” Miss Katy injects, commanding the class’s attention, “as we can see with a number of bug species.”  
  
“No kidding,” Nate mutters. No doubt he remembers being chased out of an abandoned shack by a pack of skittering radroaches.  
  
“That’s enough, everyone,” Miss Katy says, and under her pastel-bright tone is a comfortable note of command. “Please thank all our guests for taking the time to share with us!”  
  
They receive a chorus of _thank you_ s from the children, along with a pleading look from Austin for one more story. Miss Katy presents Kaelyn and Valentine with a gift—a comic each—before they leave. Outside the classroom, Kaelyn halts and closes her eyes, poised between the two crutches. Suddenly tired, her breath comes out in one tumbling rush. How can anyone reconcile sitting in a room, spinning some idealized story, enjoying it, even, with the bloody reality?

Kaelyn looks down at the comic, its cover a mess of yellow and red. _Grognak the Barbarian: Demon Slaves, Demon Sands_. She presses it into Nate’s chest. “All yours.”  
  
Knowing her distaste for Grognak, Nate smirks as he runs his thumb along the edge of the comic. It’s in good condition, aside from a few dog-eared pages. “Not bad for a castaway. Thanks, hon.” He ducks down to kiss her cheek.  
  
Valentine squirrels away his own comic into one of the considerable pockets of his trench coat. “Feel bad tracking my muck through this place. Gonna clean up a bit. I can take Dogmeat off your hands, if you kids want some time alone.” With that, he whistles for Dogmeat and sets out for the lavatory.

Nate’s green-eyed gaze traces a familiar, intimate pattern over her face. “Hon?”  
  
She feels strange, weighed yet buoyant, brittle like a sharp breath will split her chest open. “I’m going to laugh or I’m going to cry, and I don’t know which one it is yet.”  
  
His hands touch her chin, tilting her face up, and whatever he sees draws an almost-imperceptible sigh from him. His eyes shine in the bright lights, filled with _recognition_ of all things. He brushes his thumb against her lower lip before dropping his hands. “How’s the leg?”  
  
“Manageable.” When Nate raises an eyebrow at such a useless answer, she adds, “I question the need for so many stairs.”  
  
That, at least, draws a thin smile out of him. “I need to clean up. You coming with?” He holds out a hand. She does one better, sliding under his arm to lean against his side. Within a few moments she discovers that he is indeed in painful need of a shower.

The lavatories cap the end of the residential wing, one on both the ground floor and first floor. A plume of damp heat, smelling of soap and warm mold, welcomes them as they step over the threshold.  
  
Kaelyn stares, awed by the row of showers with their silver heads and blue tiles and yellow stalls. “I never thought I would see one of these again.” It had been the only luxury she ever took advantage of in the Institute. Although, come to think of it, she may have also stolen some coffee.  
  
Nate remains silent, his expression shuttered, and guides her to a stall at the end of the row. He settles her down on  a bench, balancing her crutches nearby within easy reach for her. “We can’t get these bandages wet.”  
  
“You mean I can’t go in myself?” But the dull ache in her armpits and the deep red throb in her thigh test the remnants of med-x spread thin in her blood. She eyes the shower with a dull weariness.  
  
“Afraid so.” But then Nate smirks, teasing, and his expression is at once achingly familiar and curiously alien. “Bu- _ut_ , on the other hand, you get to watch me take a shower. I’d call that a pretty sweet deal.”  
  
Pursing her lips, she taps a nail against her mouth in consideration. Nate tosses his jacket at her head.

With a towel folded over her bandaged thigh, she can indeed lean back against the wall and watch the hissing spray hit his broad shoulders. Standing under the stream of scalding water, he runs his hands through his hair, the muscles in his back shifting as he scours away every last inch of grime. Steam clouds the blue tiles, running in thin trails while Kaelyn’s hair curls. Her collar feels scratchy and damp.  
  
When Nate at last steps out, his skin is flushed pink; water droplets bead on his skin, drip from his hair. Kaelyn has a towel ready for him, which he takes with murmured thanks. He helps her undress and wets a washer under a thin stream of hot water, then kneels in front of her. Under his deft care, all lingering traces of grime from battle, astringent from surgery, and sweat from fear are washed away.

He starts with her hands, picking dirt out from under her fingernails. Over her wrists and up her arms, smoothing away the tension in her shoulders with a warm touch that knows exactly where to press. Even with the balmy atmosphere, she shivers when he pulls away to rinse the washer. Then Nate runs the washer over her breasts, over the marks on her belly, over her good leg and even her feet. Finally, he peels away the towel covering her thigh.  
  
Unwinding the bandages, Nate dabs at what clear skin he can, avoiding the stiff black threads that hold the holes in her leg together. Despite the precise knots, the stitches themselves are thick and rough, with loose threads sticking in all directions like the black fangs of an anglerfish.  
  
“Are they supposed to look like that?”  
  
Nate smooths his thumb over her knee. “It’s all right. Better to get ’em sewn up fast than sewn up pretty. They’re not permanent, anyway.”  
  
“How much longer?”  
  
Nate sucks his lower lip between his teeth. “Another week, maybe.”  
  
Before pulling away, he presses a light kiss against her thigh. Kaelyn runs her hand through his wet hair, brushing her nails across his scalp, and he lets out a soft breath. He wraps her leg in a fresh dressing and helps her to her feet, ready with a towel to envelop her. A sharp throb of pain has her wobbling on the wet tiles, her hiss echoing in the quiet like a facsimile of water.  
  
Nate steadies her, his hands around her elbows. That bullet scar on his chest is still a fresh, angry red. Her stomach twists when she sees it, so she buries her head into his chest and closes her eyes. He pulls her flush against him, supporting her weight while she wraps her arms around his ribs.

Nate buries his face in her hair. “I was afraid.”

She runs her fingers down his back. “I’m normally better at dodging, I promise.”

He tightens his hold, his nose skimming the shell of her ear. They remain in place, unwilling to move. With each breath the tension unwinds from her chest in a thin black wire.

“How about food?” he murmurs into her hair.  
  
“Clothes first.”  
  
“Killjoy,” he teases, and sets to helping her dress. He responds to her offer to help him with one raised eyebrow, and she concedes the point. He’s faster on his own without having to watch whether she’s about to faint.  
  
The Sunshine Diner is just starting to see late afternoon traffic and Nate meets Austin on the way to the cafeteria line. Valentine and Dogmeat find her at the table she’s claimed, and she ducks down to give Dogmeat a good scratch. “What have you been up to?”  
  
Valentine drops down onto the bench beside her. “Been putting the old handyman skills to work. This place isn’t going downhill—it’s caught in a landslide, careening towards a cliff.”  
  
Pressing her palms into the tabletop, Kaelyn murmurs, “That seems to be the consensus. With all the rationing and maintenance going on, I can’t believe they were willing to waste resources on me.”  
  
“They weren’t willing to let someone bleed out on their doorstep.”  
  
“Still, there’s got to be something I can do. It’s—only right, that they can live here safe in the vault.”  
  
The corner of Valentine’s mouth kicks up, even as he watches her. “I’m sure the good folks here would appreciate a hand. Heard enough complaints about supplies people can’t get their hands on.”  
  
Kaelyn nods, drawing slow circles on Dogmeat’s fur. “That’s the best way to pay them back. Go to the surface to get what they can’t.”  
  
Nate and Austin have reached Maria, who’s in control of the buffet. They pull her into a short conversation while she loads up three trays.  
  
“Still worried there’s some dark conspiracy going on down here?” Valentine’s tone is soft and conversational, pitched quietly enough that it won’t carry.  
  
Kaelyn sighs. Against all expectations, Vault 81 is stable and operating like the Vault 111 she imagined when it was being excavated behind Sanctuary Hills. “No.”  
  
He bumps her shoulder with his. “Told ya it’s the friendliest vault in the Commonwealth.”  
  
Nate returns victorious with an early dinner coaxed out of Maria. Austin and Erin sit with them, and their meal becomes a much louder affair than Kaelyn anticipated. The children chatter with all the twittering energy of birds in the spring, fresh and eager and so very young. Nate keeps them occupied, telling awful jokes and making them giggle by trying to balance a fork across his nose.

All the while, there’s a misty sheen of wistfulness in his gaze, and his smile occasionally turns down at the corners. Kaelyn touches his wrist but he moves his arm out of reach. She doesn’t pursue where she isn’t wanted, and tries to focus on her meal—pie with an unfamiliar soft filling—but the throbbing in her thigh is changing from ignorable to savage.  
  
“I can distract ’em if you want to make a break for it,” Valentine murmurs. “You look like you need some shut-eye.”  
  
“Are you going to be okay by yourself?”  
  
Valentine chuckles, warm and smooth and edged with a static burr. “Think I’ll manage.”  
  
There’s no way to sneak away unseen from a table in a cafeteria using crutches. Nate is ready to abandon the prospect of dessert to follow her, but she won’t take this fun time away from him. After a final once-over from Rachel and a nightly dose of med-x, she’s left to her own company behind the privacy screen that doesn’t do nearly enough to block out the lights. Dogmeat curls up at her feet. The med-x in her veins smooths away enough of the pain and drags her heavy eyelids closed. Her body feels heavy and sluggish, and once she’s half-curled, she doesn’t move again.

She stirs at a foreign clang and a muttered curse.

“Sorry.” A hand brushes her forehead. Nate.

Peeling her eyes open, she finds the clinic is only a few shades lighter than the insides of her eyelids. Kaelyn shuffles back and throws aside the blanket for him. Kicking off his boots and pants, Nate takes up the invitation. While the bed is wide enough to be comfortable for someone of her stature, any free space vanishes with her husband beside her. They both lie on their sides, facing each other.

“Love you,” she whispers.

“I love you, too.”  
  
Nate lets out a heavy breath, shifting on the mattress. Looks up at the ceiling. “You know, this is more along the lines of what I was expecting for Vault 111.”  
  
“This is what we should have had. If Vault-Tec hadn’t wanted their human test subjects.”  
  
The quiet pressing down on them is a few steps shy of oppressive. When Nate next speaks, his voice is mud-toned. “It would’ve been hard to live underground for the rest of our lives. Maybe without ever going to the surface again. But we could have… and Shaun would have…”  
  
Kaelyn wants to curl up, to protect her belly, but there’s no space. “The Institute would never have gotten their hands on him. We could have been a proper family.”  
  
“That Austin’s a good kid,” Nate says, slowly, as if each word holds a secret. “Makes me wonder...”  
  
Kaelyn squeezes her eyes shut and buries her head in the crook of his neck.  
  
“That synth copy of Shaun—”  
  
“Don’t.” Her whisper borders on a hiss. “Don’t open that door.” There’s too much to consider, and it’s too confusing, too hurtful, for her to want to think about it let alone bring some kind of resolution to her scarred heart. That boy should be halfway out of the Commonwealth for now. And that’s for the best.  
  
“Just— I don’t get why would he do that. Make a robot copy of himself.” Nate goes quiet. She almost believes he’s dropped the subject until he says, grief-hoarse: “I wish I could have seen him.”  
  
“Shh, shh, shh. Come here.” Kaelyn tucks Nate’s head under her chin. She’s glad he never had to see what their son became. And lurking beneath the thought, twisting between the dark boughs of a dead woodland: the question of what he would have done, had he been in her stead.  
  
She savors the warm press of Nate’s skin against hers. He runs his fingers over her shoulder and down to her hip then circles back, his breath shuddering deep in his chest. She runs her cold toes down his shins, feeling the long, soft hairs. They remain together until sleep separates them.

—

When Dr Forsythe and Rachel clear Kaelyn to leave the vault—provided she not stand too close to any more exploding cars—she’s relieved. Being able to walk without crutches has its perks. Dr Forsythe recommends Kaelyn return to Vault 81 to get the stitches removed; when she points out that there are doctors outside the vault who could do the procedure, he’s aghast at the thought of surface conditions.  
  
After some mulling, Kaelyn raises her idea with Nate. “Hey, hon. I was thinking we could grab some supplies for Vault 81. Things they need but can’t get down here.” She leans on the railing overlooking the atrium, shifting her weight off her bad leg. Despite jury rigs having jury rigs, the atrium’s founding architecture of blocky chambers and faded pastel decor is undeniably that of a vault. Perhaps it's the last functioning vault in the Commonwealth. “If there’s anything I can do to stop this place from falling into ruin like all the others…”  
  
Nate holds her hand, entwining their fingers. “I hear you. And I agree. If this is what we can do to help, then I figure I owe Overseer McNamara for letting us in.”  
  
It’s a simple matter to ask around for needed supplies that can only be found on the surface. Over breakfast, the three of them plan out their supply run, throwing around suggestions on where they might acquire the items on their list. While it may not be easier, finding supplies is cheaper than buying them.  
  
Nate catches Kaelyn in the clinic, where she’s packing her bags and checking the weapons that have finally been returned to her. “Here. I got something for you.” He holds out an unmarked book with a pen balanced in its cover.  
  
She used to scavenge pens and pencils whenever she could find them. Has a drawer full of them, some half used, some broken, some inlaid with hairline fractures and some smattered with dust. None pristine. None used. Kaelyn accepts the gifts, turning the book over in her hands as if she isn’t sure how to hold it. It sits in her hands with its odd angles and strange flatness; it doesn’t contour to her palm like the grip of a gun. A flip through the pages shows they are yellowed around the edges and occasionally mottled, but otherwise unmarked.  
  
Kaelyn blinks.  
  
“If you’re not ready to talk now—maybe you never will be—that’s all right. But you need to get whatever’s knocking around in here—” Nate taps two fingers to her temple “—out of your head.”  
  
A memory rises, unbidden, of Nate half-curled in one of the armchairs at home, his back against one armrest and a foot dangling from the other. Bright light streaming through the front windows, silver-bright, gold-edged. His considerable biceps flexing as he scribbled in a notebook, sometimes frantic and sometimes stilted. Sometimes he would get that thousand-yard stare, pen tapping against his knee in an idle, rhythmless tempo. She remembers that stack of slender books in the bottom of the wardrobe, one for each year he’d served in the army.  
  
And Nate stands before her now, his green eyes warm under the cool vault lights, lancing through her every defense. “Whatever you’ve faced,” he says, “you don’t have to be alone anymore.”  
  
Her chest feels simultaneously weighted down and weightless, sinking under shame and soaring under relief that he never witnessed the decisions she made. “Thanks, hon.”  
  
The only thing left is to say goodbye to Austin and Erin. Like antsy cats sensing rain, the two children are waiting in the atrium with reproachful gazes, toys abandoned on the steps. Austin bounds up to Kaelyn, his mouth tugging downward. “You’re leaving? You can’t leave. Gran says you haven’t got the stitches taken out yet.”  
  
With some difficulty, Kaelyn crouches down to be eye level with the kids. “It’s going to be all right. We’re coming back, hopefully with some things that will help around here.”  
  
Austin gives her a serious look, one almost beyond his years, searching for any sign that she doesn’t mean what she’s saying. He heaves a disappointed sigh. “Fine.”  
  
Valentine hauls Kaelyn to her feet, and even with the two men carrying most of her gear, there’s a warning twinge in her thigh where the stitches pull. Security halts Austin and Erin at the elevator, and no amount of puppy-dog-eyed pleading can convince the woman on duty to ignore policy and bring down the Overseer’s wrath.  
  
“I never get to go up to the surface,” Austin mutters, folding his arms over his chest. “You better come back.”

Nate ruffles Austin’s hair. “Don’t worry, my man. We will.”  
  
“Thanks again for Ashes. Be safe up there,” Erin says.  
  
“Will do,” Valentine says. “You two behave yourselves now.”  
  
The officer manning the door controls hits the switch when he sees the visitors with their bags. The great door cycles open with a clank, and when the catwalk shudders into place they’re free to leave. Nate offers Kaelyn a hand navigating both sets of stairs, and then they are in the tunnel where a thin breeze whistles dust and warm air down from the surface. Daylight guides them up, up, and then a gust of hot air welcomes them back to the Wasteland with its rust and radiation.  
  
What was intended to be a brief detour to Oberland Station to report the dead raiders turns into a lunch of tato soup in lieu of caps. The settlers refuse to let them leave without some form of payment, no matter Kaelyn’s insistence that it’s unnecessary.  
  
Nate watches lunch unfold, curious. “They seem very glad,” he murmurs. “Let them show their gratitude. They won’t feel so badly in debt this way.”  
  
The afternoon on the road crawls by after that, blessedly free of anything that wants to shoot at them. A ways up the road is the half-gnawed skeleton of a house, with one and a half walls still standing to cast deep shadows across the rubble piled on the floor. Two people sit on the porch steps.  
  
Kaelyn reaches for Deliverer.  
  
“Could be scavvers,” Valentine says. “Don’t have the look of raiders. Waiting for something, seems like.”  
  
One of the scavvers looks up, then, and they’re spotted. The strangers duck their heads towards each other, then wave the travelers on.  
  
After a moment’s hesitation, Nate leads the way. “Afternoon.”  
  
One of the scavvers nods back. His gaze flits over Valentine, then Kaelyn. “Don’t suppose any of you happen to have a Geiger counter?”  
  
Kaelyn draws back half an inch, not quite a flinch. Relaxes her grip on her gun. Not a scavver at all, but a tourist or a new agent. After losing almost all of her heavies, Desdemona must be in sore need of new blood. Kaelyn doesn’t recognize his features—mousy brown hair and plain brown eyes, with a farmer’s tan. The best kind of forgettable. Nor does he recognize her, evidently.  
  
Small blessings.  
  
Kaelyn shakes her head. “No. Sorry. ’Scuse me.”


	11. Chapter 11

Kaelyn powers down her T-51 armor and hops out, then helps the others loosen the cables securing cargo to her suit. Under Vault 81’s bright lights, the suit seems larger than life, the shadows cast by its frame deep and menacing. The obvious patchwork repairs and sanded down scars serve only to enhance its reputation. Vault 81 security openly gape at the hulking suit slumped in the corner.  
  
“How’s the suspension?” Nate asks.  
  
“It still pulls a bit in the left side. Half a second delay, maybe. You and Sturges did a good job considering the hell I’ve put this through.”  
  
This is the first field test for her power armor since the Institute. She’s had to relearn the quirks of her suit, which has been gutted and cannibalized other pieces of power armor. The left leg has to lift a little higher than the right, there are dents in the frame around her hip, and there’s now a little flicker in the HUD in the bottom left corner.  
  
Valentine grabs the other end of a bag of fertilizer, which he and Kaelyn drop without ceremony on top of the growing pile. The work of a week and a half of scavenging, with one detour to Diamond City to get Kaelyn’s stitches removed. She’ll carry the scars, as always, but while they're new and tender, they aren't as garish as past ‘trophies’.

Before they disappear into the elevator, she gives the security guards a narrow look. “Nobody touches my armor.”  
  
The easiest way to get their supplies stored and distributed is to take them to the depot—Alexis already promised to make space for them and allow people to pick up their goods at their leisure. The depot is just as cramped as always, with the trinkets arrayed on the counter in an impressive conservation of space, and the plastic pumpkin is brimming with knick knacks.

What’s unusual isn’t just that Erin is sitting on the floor, drawing a pastel blue rocket on the floor; her father Holt is here too, lounging against the far wall with his arms crossed. He sizes Kaelyn up when she steps inside, but his gaze soon skips to Nate and Valentine who each haul two bags of fertilizer. A scowl twists his face.  
  
Erin looks up when they step over the threshold, lifting her chin from her hand. “Oh. Hi there.”  
  
Alexis bustles about with a tired smile, directing the men to pile the bags of fertilizer by the door. After balancing her own load on top of a chair, Kaelyn drops to a crouch in front of Erin. The girl’s fingertips are stained blue from her chalks, and there are pale smudges on her chin, contrasting with her cool tawny skin. “Hi, Erin.”  
  
Her eyes flick up underneath her fringe, darting between Kaelyn and the rocket that she makes fly by drawing wavy lines behind its exhaust pipe.  
  
“Something wrong?”  
  
“Mister Dr Forsythe told my mom Austin is too sick to play with me.”  
  
It’s probably nothing. He’ll probably be fine in a day or two— “He’s sick?” she repeats, far too sharp. “What happened?”  
  
“Austin got himself bit by a mole rat,” Holt grumbles.  
  
On their way back to the elevator, Valentine says, “I bet that kid would appreciate a few friendly faces if he’s cooped in the clinic.”  
  
Alexis lets them dump their gear in the depot and Erin promises to watch their belongings. The clinic is bright and sterile as always, ushering visitors into a realm of cold antiseptics and crisp beds. Three people cluster around Dr Forsythe’s desk: the doctor himself, Dr Penske and an unfamiliar vault dweller.

Austin is curled on the bed at the end of the row, shivering under a mountainous pile of blankets.  
  
“You have to _do_ something, Jacob.” Worry pulls Dr Penske’s voice high and tight.  
  
“Rachel and I are running the tests as fast as we can, Priscilla. I can’t treat Austin until I know what he’s infected with.”  
  
Kaelyn keeps one ear on the desperate argument between the doctors while she approaches Austin. “Hey, buddy. Can you hear me?”  
  
Austin rolls away from the noise with a groan, thrashing under the blankets. His face is deep pink and shiny with sweat as his legs kick out. Kaelyn untangles the sheet pinning his elbows and peels back the blankets, layer by layer, until he stops thrashing. Nate steps past her to check Austin hasn’t worked the IV loose from his hand, then brushes Austin’s sweat-dark hair out of his face.  
  
“—effects are more severe because he’s a child,” Dr Forsythe is explaining.  
  
The unfamiliar man says, “Dr Forsythe—”  
  
“Not now, Bobby,” Dr Penske interrupts. “There can’t be that many mole rat diseases or toxins, Jacob—”  
  
Bobby attempts to cut in again, but the doctors talk around him. Kaelyn, Valentine and Nate trade quizzical looks. Why are the doctors ignoring someone who obviously has information?  
  
Nate steps towards the trio, his hand brushing Kaelyn’s shoulder as he passes. “I think Bobby here has something to say. It might be important.”  
  
Bobby is a lanky white man, with his vault suit hanging loose at the shoulders. “Dr Forsythe, please! You know that door Austin found? He found it ’cause of me. I keep my... private things in there. He saw me get them.”  
  
“You mean your chems,” Dr Penske says, short and curt.  
  
Ah. That explains the disregard for Bobby, sadly. Kaelyn purses her lips.  
  
Dr Forsythe is likewise impatient. “Get to the point, Bobby. What did you find in that place?”  
  
Bobby flings his arms out. “It’s like a whole extra vault in there, but half ruined and caved in.”  
  
“A secret vault?” Dr Forsythe gapes “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”  
  
A grim stone of realization settles in Kaelyn’s chest, sinking into the sucking sludge at the bottom of a black pond. Her every nerve is quiet, alert, _knowing_. This is what she’s been waiting for.  
  
Bobby babbles, anxious now, “There’s this terminal there. So I started poking around in it. There were some notes and stuff on using the mole rats to grow viruses. But they also said that they used them to make treatments and vaccines and stuff!”  
  
For a second Dr Penske looks like she might hug him. “Bobby, you’re a genius!”

Dr Forsythe remains grim. “It won’t be safe down there. Rachel is examining the mole rat now, but from what I saw, these are not ordinary animals. If they infected Austin, they could infect anyone who goes down there.”  
  
Austin looks so very small under the blankets. “I’ll go down,” Kaelyn says, looking over shoulder at the doctors. “For Austin.”  
  
Dr Penske looks over, then, wild lines of worry furrowing the wrinkles on her brow, her face twisted somewhere between hope and disbelief. “You have a good heart.”  
  
Kaelyn isn’t so sure. That’s more Valentine’s realm.  
  
At her belated remembrance of her promise to Nate, she looks to him, and then to Valentine one eyebrow raised.  
  
“Of course,” he says. “We’ll go.”  
  
Valentine gives her a look that suggests she’s being ridiculous for having to ask. “No question about it. I’m disease-proof, so there’s no problem for me.”  
  
Nate’s gaze cuts to Kaelyn. “You take the power armor.”  
  
She huffs out a breath. “Nate—”  
  
But his face is smooth, inscrutable, giving her nothing let alone an argument. He asks Dr Forsythe, “Do you have any kind of protective gear I could borrow?”  
  
Nate’s ‘protective gear’, if it can be called such, is a mismatched collection of a hazard suit from the clinic, thick rubber gloves from engineering and a gas mask claimed from the depot. Over the ill-fitting layers of plastic and rubber, he secures leg and arm guards borrowed from vault security.  
  
The eclectic mix of scavenged parts is beyond ridiculous, but Kaelyn only prays it’ll hold up.  
  
With a final weapons check, she crouches down to give Dogmeat a thorough pat. “Stay here, buddy.” To Dr Forsythe, she says, “He can keep the other kids occupied if need be. He’s friendly.”  
  
Before they follow Bobby, Kaelyn looks back to Austin one more time. For a moment the lights are colder, the walls silver and blue, and her son is dying again.  
  
Dr Penske looks between them, wringing her hands, anxious, looking past them to Austin’s huddled form. She’s a woman standing on the brink of devastation, with enough warning to see the looming precipice, but without enough time to prepare for the inevitable plunge. There’s never enough time. It’s an all too familiar dread, and the look on Dr Penske’s face wrings Kaelyn’s heart. “For Austin’s sake, please hurry!”

—

A suit of power armor offers unparalleled protection in the Commonwealth, so Kaelyn navigates the cramped doorway as best she can in its hulking mass. Tiny chunks of loose dirt plink off her helmet and shoulders, nothing more than harmless irritants. Her HUD scrawls vital information in hot yellow-orange that she has since learned to tune out at will. The light from her headlamp bounces off slopes of debris shaken loose from the rocky ceiling, while each step thuds with a sonorous boom. Sneaking in power armor is beyond absurd but she is all but impervious to harm. It’s a strange, heady confidence to be encased in airtight interlocking plates, the world filtered through optics, air filters, and a skin of steel.  
  
No, it isn’t worry for her own safety that quickens her pulse.  
  
“Down the rabbit hole we go.” Valentine says from the rear, his low baritone echoing off the narrow walls.  
  
Bobby sees them off at the entrance to the hidden vault, a skinny slouching specter, out of place in his relatively clean vault suit amidst such ruin.  
  
This is what she’s come to expect from vaults: walls with paint and panels peeled away like sloughed snake skin to reveal circuitry that served as nerves of the vault. Sporadic flickers from the lights throw more shadows than they alleviate.  
  
Even with coils of machinery and steel cocooning her, she can feel the stale, dusty chill. Her feet are already cold. “Now this is more like it.”  
  
An old terminal is tucked under a staircase, grayed with centuries of dust. Its keyboard is almost entirely clogged, but some of the keys are dustless and the screen has been wiped clean.  
  
When Kaelyn moves to investigate, Nate says. “Austin might not have long. We can’t waste time fiddling around with a terminal.” His voice is distorted by the gas mask.  
  
“Just let me have a crack at it. There might be something useful on there.” Her power armour hisses as it splits open, then she’s gesturing for Valentine. “Let’s see what we can do.”  
  
Whoever locked the terminal really didn’t want outsiders to gain access. In a few minutes of quiet cursing, they get locked out four times, and only a lucky guess from Valentine saves them from making it five.  
  
“We’re in,” Kaelyn says with grim triumph.  
  
_Welcome, Overseer Oliviette_.  
  
“Let’s see...” Kaelyn skims over the entries, and the stone in her gut gets heavier. “Prime directive to research infectious diseases and antibodies. Science staff were sealed off in a research area. Trials conducted in three stages...”  
  
_Stage three trials may be performed on the residential population of Vault 81_  
  
_No other members of the residential population are to be made aware of the prime directive._  
  
Nate swears softly behind her. “Blind human test subjects. Again.”  
  
Kaelyn’s lips thin. “This is more along the lines of what I’d expect from Vault-Tec.”  
  
If she thought nothing from Vault-Tec could sicken her, she’s proved wrong: _Propellant nozzles have been pre-installed in resident living quarters. Residents are to be incinerated after the project has been concluded to avoid contamination with outside population._  
  
From the Overseer’s personal logs, she was as blind as the residents when she accepted the job, for all that she suspected Vault-Tec’s questionable ethics.

Kaelyn’s breath leaves her in a thin stream just shy of a hiss. “Vault-Tec had government backers pushing this experiment.”  
  
Nate swears again, then straightens. “Not relevant right now. Is there anything useful in the logs? Like how this section was abandoned while the residential partition is still functional?”  
  
Kaelyn reads on and grows quiet. “Oh.”  
  
The last entry is titled _Forgiveness_. Overseer Oliviette had hoped that the scientists planning on unleashing diseases on innocent people would forgive her for stopping it. The needs of the many prioritized over the needs of the few, after all.  
  
“The Overseer... sabotaged the vault. Stopped the scientists from receiving phone calls on the day... sabotaged the delivery nozzles in the resident quarters so the scientists couldn’t run their tests on humans. Then she sealed the scientists in their section of the vault.”  
  
Vault 111’s Overseer had been nothing but enthusiastic about his project.  
  
“Well, well. A little humanity from these folks at last,” Valentine says. “I think that’s all we’ll squeeze outta this thing, so how about we get a move on?”  
  
The next room, if it can be called such, is little more than an excavated cave, the floor covered in dirt. Kaelyn takes the lead, stomping onto the dirt while Nate and Valentine wait with floor panels under their feet. Musket trained on the ground, she paces to the stairs then turns around. Nothing. Nate and Valentine still run for the second floor while she scans the ground, then she follows them up. The stairs groan under the weight of her armor, so she takes them two at a time.  
  
Towards the end of the walkway is a hole in the wall that exposes an old dormitory. Four rotting bunks frame the spartan, vacant space; Kaelyn makes a beeline for the lonely terminal sitting on one of the desks. The terminal entries contain incomprehensible stats on the project, but one entry stands out in particular: _Mole rats show unusual degrees of aggression in captivity. Some of the keepers are complaining that the lab animals are watching them, which is preposterous._  
  
“I expect there’s a damn good reason this place is abandoned,” Valentine says.  
  
“First dangerous diseases, now aggressive mole rats. What could possibly go wrong?” Nate quips.  
  
Kaelyn moves into the corridor. Her gaze is low, searching for the elusive mole rats. The audio receivers on her suit are scratchy, and she almost doesn’t hear the warm-up whine.  
  
“Turret!” Nate barks.  
  
Kaelyn jerks back behind the corner as a hail of bullets plink off her armor. She waits for the ripping staccato to stop, then leans out of cover. Sights the turret and fires—and realizes there’s a second turret when it almost takes her arm off. A second shot causes it to explode, spraying fire and debris across the walls. Kaelyn leans out a third time to check there are no more before declaring the coast clear.  
  
They take the stairs down to a living area with a cafeteria that mirrors the Sunshine Diner. The walls are similarly blue, but the paint sports deep cracks like scorched earth split under the sun’s baking heat. There’s also a dormant Protectron unit. With a few keystrokes, Kaelyn steps back as the Protectron disengages from its pod to clunk down the stairs. “Let the mole rats gnaw on that first.”  
  
They follow the signs down the stairs to Research and Maintenance to a inter-modular security door with a flashing red light. Here no attempt was made to pretty up the vault: the corridors are cluttered and cramped with exposed cables and wires of all kinds, with enough clashing colors to leave any visitor perpetually unsettled. A boiler feed whistles, a high, continuous whine that grates on Kaelyn’s ears even through the tinny speakers of her power armor. Blue pipes stand out against the red walls, and she’s reminded of animals that telegraph their danger with bright colors. _Don_ _’t touch me. I’m poisonous._  
  
Warnings in eroded white letters cover almost every panel. _DO NOT TAMPER. DO NOT TOUCH. MAINT ONLY._  
  
The space opens to bare gray tunnel with high steel panel walls and dirt floor. They’ve almost reached the stairs when the ground bursts, spraying damp chunks of dirt.  
  
“Move!” Kaelyn calls to Nate, but he’s already bolting for higher ground.  
  
These mole rats are bigger again than even the mutants she’s already familiar with, with lumpy rolls of pink skin and snapping jaws. The rats are too nimble for her to get a good aim, so she only cranks once for each shot and lunges at the ones trying to get past her to their prey on the stairs. Stray bullets ping off her leg plates, but she cares only about stomping on the tail of a pustule-ridden rat about to leap up the stairs between her legs. It halts with a screech and Valentine riddles it with bullets.

Chittering behind Kaelyn has her turning, cursing, but the men have already opened fire on the two mole rats that burst out of the ground. One drops, spasming. The other, bleeding and screeching, throws itself at the stairs. She brings her foot down with a wet crunch. She casts her gaze around the floor, checking the tunnels, waiting for an attack that never comes.  
  
Nate jerks his rifle towards her boot. “You’re going to have to clean that.”  
  
They climb up to the second floor, which is little more than a wide balcony jammed between two natural cave walls. It looks like some kind of supply area with sealed cases on the landing. Nate pokes around the sleek blue and silver crates, many of which are unopened.  
  
“ _I_ _’m sure this whole thing with Austin is overblown and he’ll be running around tomorrow.”_  
  
Kaelyn starts, glancing around for Miss Katy. A terminal hangs next to a blacked-out window and—there. A speaker has been set into the wall above the terminal, which relays Dr Penske’s anxious response. Stomach twisting, Kaelyn takes another look at the window.  
  
Valentine’s lip curls back as he looks between the speakers and the black window. “A peepin’ tom’s paradise.”  
  
Kaelyn creeps up to the terminal labeled _HYDROPONICS LAB,_ wondering if the woman could hear the mechanical thunk of her power armor. Accessing the terminal yields only clinical notes on the classes of diseases best introduced via food, so Kaelyn does her best to ignore Miss Katy comforting Dr Penske until she’s convinced the terminal has no useful information to offer.

Up the stairs, they reach a metal and wire mesh security gate marked _RESEARCH_ that wouldn’t be out of place in a prison or military complex, bathed in deep red light.  
  
In this corridor there is another black observation window, another terminal, and another monitored conversation.  
  
“ _Well, this has got to be a joy for you. You get to nag me and I can_ _’t go anywhere.”_  
  
“ _Real nice, Holt. Make this about you. Your daughter could get sick like Austin, and you_ _’re whining about spending time with your family?”_  
  
Unseen inside her power armor, Kaelyn winces. By unspoken agreement, they hurry away in an attempt to let the private argument stay private, but Holt’s voice carries down the corridor. “ _I have things to do. We don_ _’t have to hide in here.”_  
  
“ _You_ _’re so busy, Holt? Please, explain to Erin why your needs are more important than her safety.”_  
  
“ _Just_ _— nevermind._ _”_  
  
Alexis scoffs under her breath. “ _Idiot._ _”_  
  
“She deserves better than that,” Nate says, quiet yet sharp, his shoulders bunching in a tense line under the bulky hazard suit.  
  
As it turns out, the research area has been grafted onto the fringes of the residential vault, lurking in the cold spaces between hollow walls and solid rock. It peels back the privacy of the vault dwellers—even the Overseer’s.  
  
Kaelyn isn’t surprised that Vault-Tec installed an observation port to monitor its Overseer. More tinny voices blare through the speakers, but they’re drowned out by a horde of scampering and squeals. At Nate’s bark they form a line to fire at the mole rats streaming up the stairs—and have to backpedal. She can’t fire as fast as Valentine or Nate, but the writhing mass of wrinkled bodies makes it difficult to miss. The leader, a monstrous beast easily twice the size of the others, leaps straight for her face. Kaelyn backhands it, sending it flying into the wall.  
  
Valentine guns down a mole rat clawing at Nate’s boot and has to reload.  
  
“ _What_ _’s his prognosis?”_  
  
Kaelyn tries to make out the words—and a pair of jaws close around her wrist. Its teeth needle for the seals that keep her gauntlet locked, its eyes black and eerily sharp.  
  
“— _not good. The infection has progressed rapidly_ _—_ _”_  
  
She blasts the mole rat off with a one-handed shot and something lands on her back. Hard enough to make her stumble. The rats at their feet abandon their prey to snap at her boots. She can hear teeth grinding at the back of her neck, seeking a way between the seals of her suit. Reaching back, Kaelyn tears the giant mole rat free and throws it over the railing. She dislodges two more, their claws scrabbling to find purchase on her legs. Valentine grabs another one by the scruff of its neck and pulls the trigger.  
  
“Hold still!” Nate barks, and it goes against every screaming instinct to obey while the mole rats are climbing up her legs, but his aim is quick and true, shooting off one, two, three mole rats. Kaelyn flinches at the bullets whizzing so close to her knees and shoots the last one herself.  
  
Panting, she raises a hand to swipe at the sweat beading on her forehead and only succeeds in hitting her helmet. “Anyone hurt?”  
  
“Was gonna ask you that,” Valentine says.  
  
Her HUD reports no breaches, which Nate is relieved to hear. He still gives her suit a quick once-over as best he can. They step around the mess of bodies and bullet holes to a stairwell. Fresh holes and pawprints mar the ground below. A thin wheezing has all three of them raising their weapons to the dark. The mole rat she tossed over the balcony curls and uncurls, trying to drag itself to the stairs with two broken legs and a crooked tail. Its chest is already malformed from broken ribs. Nate puts it out of its misery.  
  
A sliding door segues into a metal-floored corridor. Peering into one of flanking chambers, Kaelyn registers the cages just as claws scritch on metal. She hits the first mole rat square in the chest. Nate cuts down two more with a burst of laser fire. Valentine halts the last one with a well-placed shot while Kaelyn is still aiming. Silence heralds this temporary peace.  
  
Perhaps the mole rats had some kind of aversion to the place where their ancestors were once contained, as there are only a few more scattered about the enclosures in dark corners. Only the glimmer of their eyes gives them away.  
  
Nate reloads his rifle and keeps it raised. “They wouldn’t be keeping medical treatments in the breeding area. Let’s move out.”  
  
The chamber extends up stairs to more breeding pens. They move with care, checking empty room after empty room, tracking the trails of brown pawprints that mottle the floor.  
  
“Nothing. Let’s m—”  
  
A mass of dirt at the end of the hall shakes and bursts. A mole rat rears up on its hind legs, exposing the heavy teats on her belly. Her skin glows a radiant green.  
  
With a furious screech, the brood mother charges.  
  
She’s not only big but fast, her bulk not hindering her in the slightest. They fire and fire, but she doesn’t slow down let alone stop. The glowing veins crisscrossing her flesh pulse. Kaelyn cranks her musket twice, takes her eyes off the brood mother for a moment—  
  
And she dodges around Kaelyn to careen into Nate. They go down in a tangle of teeth and snarls. Nate scrabbles to push her away, to get his rifle up. Gets a hand around her throat to keep her snapping teeth out of his face. With a snarl of her own, Kaelyn grabs what flesh she can and heaves. The brood mother rears back, shrieking, glowing blood spurting from the bullet holes in her hide. Kaelyn gets her musket level with the brood mother’s head and fires. Her head snaps to the side, instantly cauterized black. Nate scrambles out from under her kicking legs and empties the rest of his fusion cell into her.

The brood mother twitches once, twice, and dies.  
  
“Nate! Honey?” Tossing the mole rat away, she goes to one knee, ignoring his weak wave. Kaelyn searches for blood, for any signs of pain, for torn skin. Is about ready to get out of this damn suit so she can hold him. “Did it bite you?”  
  
Nate runs his hands over the torn material; underneath, his skin is undamaged. “No.”  
  
Relief. She sighs and assists with patching the hole as best she can with her hands encased in bulky gauntlets. She suspects she’s more hindrance than help, but he doesn’t comment beyond a quick thanks when they’re ready to move.  
  
A second sweep of the upper level reveals a terminal-locked door in a niche. Said door doesn’t remain locked for long. Kaelyn keeps her rifle raised, but can’t hear the tell-tale scamper of claws or shuffle of shifting earth.

Three overturned lockers lie in a neat row, with a vase of dried flowers at the foot of each one. Wax puddles around the offerings from candles that have burned low. A lab coat is folded on each locker; on one rests a pair of black-rimmed glasses.  
  
“Guess we know what happened to the scientists,” Valentine murmurs. “But who gave them their honors?”  
  
On the far wall there’s an observation window, and bobbing on the other side is a Miss Nanny bot. “Oh! Are you Vault-Tec security? I’ve waited so very patiently for you to arrive.” Its voice is not only polite and feminine, but also French accented.  
  
Kaelyn raises an eyebrow. “Who are you?”  
  
“I am Contagions Vulnerability Robotic Infirmary Engineer, or CVRIE. The human scientists called me Curie.”  
  
“You were part of the research team? You know what’s infecting these mole rats?”  
  
Curie’s appendages droop. “My poor little darlings. They were used to grow all manner of new and interesting pathogens. The vault citizens would be exposed to these diseases in the hopes they would develop new antibodies. But Clyde got out of his cage. He was smarter than the others, my sweet Clyde.”  
  
“Not sure I’d describe a man-chomping mole rat as sweet,” Nate says. He rubs the fresh patch on his suit.  
  
Curie either ignores or doesn’t notice his skepticism. “I am pleased to report I completed my primary duties eighty three years ago. Thousands of pathogens were grown in the mole rat hosts, then a single broad spectrum cure was developed to treat them all. You are Vault-Tec security here to collect it, yes? Please tell me you are authorized to release me from the lab.”  
  
“Do I look like Vault-Tec security?” Kaelyn raises an eyebrow, unseen, and plants a hand on her hip. “Why can’t you just leave the lab?”  
  
“I require verbal or written authorization. In fact, any Vault-Tec employee could authorize me.”  
  
Kaelyn says, “There aren’t any employees left, nor have there been in over two hundred years.”  
  
Curie lifts one appendage almost like a shocked hand fluttering to one’s mouth. “Gone? Truly? My programming does not cover this contingency.” Her tone becomes desperate, pleading: “Please tell me the authority to release me was transferred to you.”  
  
Kaelyn takes a moment to weigh it up. This is a robot who is cordial, obedient to her programming, and possesses medical knowledge that could transform the Commonwealth. But what moves her to answer is the edge of desperation cutting through Curie’s tone. “Uh, I am so authorized. I’ll release you.”  
  
If she’s expecting relief, Curie only responds with a cheery, “Superb. I had almost given up all hope of leaving here.” When the door cycles open, Curie bobs out—and clasped in one of her appendages is a slender canister marked with Vault-Tec’s logo. “If you have an equivalent to my digital Hippocratic Oath, please use it quickly to prevent any undue suffering.”  
  
“Stupendous,” Nate says. “That should work on Austin.”  
  
Curie leads them to an elevator that the science staff must have used to enter their section of Vault 81. It’s a cramped fit with a man, a synth, a Miss Nanny bot and a suit of power armor. The ride is frustrating, ponderous, plagued by concern for the groaning gears and for Austin.  
  
“If I never get stuck in one of these vaults again, it’ll be too soon.” Valentine mutters.  
  
Kaelyn couldn’t agree more.

The elevator doors part with a cheery _ding_ to a pristine corridor that leads only to a remotely-locked door. It slides open when Valentine accesses the terminal, admitting them to the vault’s exit zone and giving the security officers a nasty fright.

“What the—!”

“No time,” Nate says. “This bot’s got a cure for Austin.”  
  
A wide-eyed look from security reminds Kaelyn to step out of her power armor to pass through the radiation sensors. Nate pulls off the gas mask and gloves while they’re stuck in the elevator, then rolls them together into a rubbery ball that looks like a wriggling lump of eels.  
  
They rush to the clinic with Curie bobbing behind them, remarking on the state of the residential partition. She perks when the clinic doors part, lured by medical equipment and curiosity. Dogmeat rushes them, tail wagging, and Dr Forsythe follows with equal haste.  
  
Nate takes a step towards Austin’s bed. The boy is curled on his side, pale and quiet and still. “How’s he doing?”  
  
“He’s been unconscious since shortly after you left. What did you find down there?” Dr Forsythe openly stares at Curie.  
  
Kaelyn gestures to the robot. “Curie here developed this serum that’s supposed to work. If you could stay here and assist Dr Forsythe?”  
  
Curie bobs on the spot, her eye stalks diverging to peer at both Dr Forsythe and Austin. “Oh, but of course. I see the child is fevered. We had best administer the serum at once, yes?”  
  
The good doctor evicts all bar Curie—although he measures her with a wary look—while Rachel preps Austin’s IV.  
  
Kaelyn watches the clinic door after it’s closed in her face. “Do you think it’ll be enough?”  
  
Valentine answers, “I think we’ve done all we can. It’s up to the docs now.”  
  
Dr Penske sits on a bench nearby, folded like paper worn along its crease until it cannot stand open. She stares into space, worrying a chipped fingernail. “I’ve raised Austin since his parents passed,” she murmurs, her voice hollow. “He’s my son. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”  
  
“It’s not over yet,” Kaelyn says, because it’s all she can say. The cure will work, or it won’t. Austin will pull through, or he won’t.  
  
“You’re back.” Overseer McNamara trots down the stairs, coming to a halt when she sees the closed clinic door. “Security said you surprised them out the front. Were you successful?”  
  
“We found some sort of serum that’s supposed to treat all sorts of illnesses,” Nate answers. “Doc’s treating Austin right now.”  
  
The Overseer nods, slowly, absently. Then her gaze sharpens. “Then all we can do now is wait and hope. Come to my office. I want you to tell me everything you found.”  
  
“Will you be all right here by yourself?” Kaelyn asks Dr Penske.  
  
“Yes, yes. You don’t have to coddle me.” A spark of her fire flares like an ember springing out of a fire and into the dark.  
  
The Overseer’s office is appropriately placed, with an observation window to provide a clear view of the atrium below. It’s relatively spacious with a large desk in a state of organized chaos, papers and holotapes divided into lop-sided stacks around the desk terminal.  
  
When they’re all seated, Kaelyn explains, “Vault 81’s original purpose was to study diseases and develop treatments. They experimented on mole rats first, then were going to run human trials.The first Overseer sabotaged the project so they couldn’t infect the residents here. But we found a robot down there—Curie—and she succeeded in making a broad spectrum cure.”  
  
The Overseer sucks in a sharp breath. “I had no idea Vault-Tec hid away danger so close to home.”  
  
Kaelyn lets out a breath. Her hand balls into a fist on her thigh. “This is why you’ve never heard of any other functioning vaults. All the others I’ve seen experimented on their residents.”  
  
McNamara leans forward in her seat, leaning her elbows on the table and linking her hands. “Tell me.”  
  
“Vault 114 pitted white collar and blue collar people against each other. Vault 75 tried to make super soldiers out of children. Vault 111 tested the long term effects of cryogenic stasis on unaware human subjects.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry.” McNamara’s face twists with sorrow. She wanders to the window to watch over the bustling atrium. “I’ve spent my entire life thankful for the vault, for the walls that protected us for two centuries. But we prospered in spite of Vault-Tec, not because of them. I hate to think what Vault-Tec had in store for us.”  
  
Kaelyn chooses not to mention the incineration nozzles fitted in every room.  
  
“What Vault-Tec did to you, and planned to do to us, was wrong. I can’t change the harm that was done to your vault, but I can offer you a room of your own here in 81.”  
  
“A… place here?” Kaelyn repeats. “Just like that?”  
  
McNamara smiles, clasping her hands behind her back, looking all too pleased with herself. “It’s hardly a snap decision. You’ve opened a lot of eyes around here, including my own. Vault dwellers have to look out for each other. And this extends to you, Mr Valentine. I hear our mechanics are nothing but pleased with the maintenance work you’ve done.”  
  
Valentine tips his hat. “Much obliged, Overseer. It helps not needing to sleep.”  
  
“Is there anything else you can tell me about the secret part of the vault?”  
  
“The tunnels are in bad shape, but there were crates that might contain supplies,” Nate answers. His expression is unusually serious. “I don’t know if we got all the mole rats, so you need to be careful down there.”  
  
Kaelyn replays the last few hours in her head, trying to recall anything else that could— _oh_. “Overseer! With the Institute destroyed, your vault has the most advanced medical knowledge in the Commonwealth. If you can preserve the data down there, it could save people’s lives, here and on the surface.”  
  
McNamara mulls that over, a thoughtful frown clouding her expression. “I know enough people who mistrust the Commonwealth. Who want us to remain isolated, even if it means withholding something this big.”  
  
“For the moment, it probably is safest if you keep that data quiet,” Kaelyn admits. “There’s no Institute or Brotherhood of Steel to come knocking, but that doesn’t mean Vault 81 won’t become a target if word gets out. And I don’t know of anyone with the equipment to utilize it, anyway.” _Dammit, Dez, why did we destroy so much technology and research? The Institute_ _’s tech could have done a world of good._  
  
This is not the sort of news any leader appreciates, especially not one already trying to steer a run down vault away from cataclysm. McNamara knots her hands into a double fist even if her expression remains composed. “This is something I’ll need to consider.”  
  
It’s all anyone can ask for.  
  
When security sends word to the Overseer that Austin has woken, they rush down to the clinic. Dr Penske, Dr Forsythe, Rachel and Curie all hover around the bed, and Kaelyn twists to get a glimpse of the boy himself. Austin is pale and small, freckles stark over the waxy yellow cast of his face, with his hair slicked back. But his eyes are indeed open and his nose wrinkled by the smell of antiseptic.  
  
Dr Penske smiles, like the first rays of golden light piercing the sky after a storm’s dark deluge, and relief rattles her chest in a heaving sigh. “You had me worried, Austin.”  
  
Austin blinks up at the adults surrounding his bed. “Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”

—

This time Kaelyn can enjoy the shower as it is meant to be experienced. Under the hot spray, she rests her palms on the tiled wall and bows her head so the water can loosen the muscles coiled in her shoulders. Nate runs his hands through his sweaty hair and after cleaning himself with mechanical movements, he simply stands under the water.  
  
With all the reluctance of a cat slinking out of a sunbeam, Kaelyn turns off the faucet. The spray recedes to a leaky _plink-plink-plink_ dripping to the floor. Touching Nate’s shoulder, she says, “You’ve been quiet since we got back. Is everything all right?”  
  
It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking to him, for his eyes to focus on something other than empty space. “Huh? Yeah, sure.”  
  
Kaelyn looks him over. There are hollow smears of lavender under his eyes, and the scruff along his jaw is thick and unkempt. “Okay.”  
  
When they’re dressed, he says, “How about we check out the new digs?” It’s a brave attempt to sound casual.  
  
She doesn’t press him again; he’ll talk when he’s ready and not a moment before. Kaelyn holds out a hand, and he slides his palm against hers. Equally callused, equally gentle. Their quarters are on the second floor, the seventh door down. She palms the door controls, and the door sticks as it groans open.

The walls are the same faded yellow as the rest of the wing, like someone left sunbeams to dry and collect dust. A double mattress claims the niche for the bed. Beyond that extravagance, furniture is spare: a dresser, a desk with a lamp, and two hard-backed chairs. Someone has given the room a hasty dusting and spray with some kind of deodorant, which only serves to throw a haze of dust into the air and mist it with pine fragrance.  
  
In a micro-world where every last inch of living space is precious, this gift is one beyond measure.  
  
That night at dinner, Overseer McNamara makes the announcements: Austin is expected to make a full recovery thanks to the actions of their visitors, who braved a secret section of Vault 81, and they’re now free to call Vault 81 home.  
  
Austin himself is still confined to the clinic with Dr Penske at his bedside. Maria the head chef wrangles a promise from Kaelyn to take him and the medical staff some get-well pie. Kaelyn checks in on Nate but he waves her off, so she leaves him after trading a look with Valentine. Working at Valentine Detective Agency for the rest of her life is never going to cover the debt she owes her friend, but at least he’ll be glad of the company.  
  
So Kaelyn makes her escape with an overladen cafeteria tray and a folded note from Erin. Austin perks up when he sees Maria’s pie from where he sits cross-legged on the bed, restrained only by the IV line.

“Feeling better?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says around a mouthful of pastry. Dr Penske scolds him not to talk with his mouth full, but her heart clearly isn’t in it. He swallows and scrunches his face up, either from chagrin or pie burning his throat. “The Overseer has already yelled at me for exploring.”

Lifting her foot onto the bed, Kaelyn unties her shoelaces and pulls up her trouser leg to show old bite marks around her ankle. “Got these on my first day out of the vault. Mole rats are vicious.”

“Gran says you guys went down there to help me. Thanks, ma’am.”

Dr Penske adds, “I can never repay what you’ve done for us.”

Kaelyn busies herself retying her laces. “It was the least we could do.”  
  
When Austin yawns, she retreats to let him rest. In the Sunshine Diner, Valentine is entertaining Erin and a few other kids with age-appropriate cop stories, and a number of adults have joined the table to listen or gawk. Nate isn’t around. Kaelyn weasels back into her spot beside Valentine to listen and tries to push back the guilt when she wants to laugh at Valentine’s description of a perp fleeing a crime scene in nothing but a life ring and a pair of flippers.

When someone asks Kaelyn for stories from the surface, she pleads exhaustion and takes her leave. A quick whistle and Dogmeat clambers out from under the table, his belly plump from begged scraps. Since most dwellers are taking the opportunity to slack off in the Sunshine Diner, the walk through the residential wing is eerily quiet, with only the click of Dogmeat’s nails and the more ponderous beat of her own footsteps. Kaelyn has to glance around, but the floors are clean and the lights are on and the climate control is functioning.

Dogmeat noses her hand with an inquisitive snuffle, his ears alert. Kaelyn lets out a breath and rubs the spot behind his ear that has him arching into her hand. “Thanks, buddy.”

When they’re ready to keep walking, she pays more attention to the passing doors, still not quite able to believe the Overseer just gave them a room here. The thought is tarnished with a distant ache for her neighbors buried in their icy coffins in Vault 111. But she can’t let it overshadow the generosity of 81. She can’t carry the bodies forever.

She reaches Room 27 and stops for a moment to marvel: _our room_.

Inside the lights are off and the space occupied. Nate sits in the dark, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up. With his head bowed and one fist pressed to his temple, his expression is impossible to make out.  
  
“Hey,” she says, softly, and lowers herself to one knee beside him. “Do you want company, or do you want to be alone?”  
  
“Stay. Please,” he says in a wet voice. When he looks up, his eyes glimmer in the darkness.  
  
Kaelyn awkwardly turns to sit down, and she’s barely settled when Nate shuffles closer. His grief is a creeping thing, its acid finally eating away at the worn, cracking walls of denial that had closed over his heart.

Out of the blue, he laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “I can save Austin but not my own son? Some father I am.” He scrubs a hand over his face; inhales wetly. “If only I knocked that bastard’s gun away—”  
  
“Honey, you’re not superhuman. Ignoring how disorienting it is to be thawed from cryo, you would have had to drop Shaun to fight Kellogg.”  
  
“No. I’m a soldier. I should’ve been better than that.”  
  
Cradling his head against her shoulder, Kaelyn runs her fingers over his scalp, letting him talk and cry as he wills, a litany of _if-onlys_ and _I-should-haves_ that are as plentiful as the stars in the sky and sharp as knives.  
  
“I miss him, you know? I only wanted to keep him safe. Couldn’t even manage that.” He presses his forehead into her shoulder, clutching her with all the frantic strength of a drowning man in stormy waters who’s found a scrap of wood to cling to. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”  
  
Kaelyn pinches the bridge of her nose, but the room is a dark, wet blur now. “Honey. Honey. Please stop apologizing. It’s not your fault.” But it’s a guilt she cannot assuage with words any more than she can smooth away the pains of the scar on his chest.  
  
He cries himself out on her shoulder, quiet and shaking. Afterward she kisses him and leads him to bed, where he clings to her until he settles.  
  
She presses her lips against his temple. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Better. Still a little...”  
  
Another kiss.  
  
His voice is small when he asks, “He’s never coming back, is he?”

“No, he isn’t.” She doesn’t even attempt to keep her voice even.

“It’s never going to go away, is it?”  
  
She closes her eyes. Feels the ache behind her breastbone that has taken many forms over the last five months. It’s been nothing but a constant companion. But it isn’t crushing her as much as it used to, for the moment. “I don’t think so. I think, eventually, you learn to carry the weight.”  
  
Nate snuggles closer and drapes a hand over her waist, heavy and comforting, and something eases in her chest. Not the cold space once lit by a baby’s smile—that remains a gaping, bloodless wound—but the space that glowed when she said _I do,_ that for the last five months yearned for strong arms and the smell of aftershave.  
  
Nate kisses the side of her neck, just below her jaw. “Love you.”  
  
For the first time since waking up two hundred and ten years into the future, she feels closer to normal. “Love you. No matter what.”

—

_end part one_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for reference, part one was supposed to be six chapters. Guess who can't tell a short story?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for helping with this chapter!

_part two: where your heart lies_

—

Curie’s first jet propulsion outside in two hundred years is a moment of wonder. She’d requested to accompany them in their travels and Kaelyn had agreed. She’s kept stranger company before, and anyone—human or otherwise—with medical expertise is good to have nearby.  
   
“Oh my!” All three eye stalks turn in different directions, taking in as much as she can. “This is the long-term result of radiation exposure?”  
   
For Curie’s first surface foray, they decide it would be best to stick to a short, familiar route—so to Sanctuary Hills they go. It feels strange returning so soon; Kaelyn keeps her distance from Sanctuary until the ache is strong enough to draw her back. It’s a cycle of restlessness and desire for rest that defines her relationship with home.  
   
Curie’s inquisitive excitement is a far cry from Kaelyn’s initial horror. Curie barely ventures a few feet beyond the construction yard only to discover a patch of glowing mushrooms growing in the shade of a boulder. It’s all they can do to get Curie moving at all. Only the promise of more discoveries lures her into abandoning a sample.  
   
“I do not have the proper equipment to study it,” she concedes. “But please, let me scan as many indigenous life forms as possible. My databanks are out of date, which must be remedied as soon as possible.”  
   
They retrace their path to the outer suburbs and across the bridge, trekking through the swampy wood that circles the lake, where mushrooms grow as happily between cracks in the asphalt as they are on rotting logs.  
   
Curie’s unmitigated joy at the sights, even when a mirelurk chases her away from a half-eaten brahmin on the bank of the lake, makes Kaelyn wonder what it’s like for a robot to see the sun for the first time in two centuries. What kind of sensory input Curie possesses beyond her optics and biometric scanners, if she can ever enjoy the feel of sunlight warming her chrome plates.  
   
Curie asks all kinds of questions about the purposes and capabilities of Kaelyn’s power armor, and somehow Kaelyn ends up explaining parts of her journey into the Glowing Sea, about how the suit kept her alive. Curie frequently interrupts, always politely, to request clarification on one thing or another, and is suitably impressed that Kaelyn survived in such conditions.  
   
“After my work on the broad-spectrum cure was complete, I allowed myself to spare some of my processors to analyzing data on human behavior. I have many theories I can now test!”  
   
Kaelyn shares a sideways glance with Valentine. “Just how are you planning on running your tests? Humans aren’t lab rats to play with.”  
   
Any burgeoning concern is mitigated when Curie answers, “Observation should suffice, madame, and as I am no longer operating within Vault-Tec’s parameters, I am still bound by my ethics subroutines.”  
   
Nate is quiet through all of this; he only protests Kaelyn taking the lead, to which she points to her power armor. He’s alert, scanning their surroundings for threats, but something has shut down behind his eyes. Gone is his familiar slouch; in its place is an impeccable posture that was probably beaten into him in basic. Given they’re undertaking a journey that is never safe, not these days, Kaelyn doesn’t probe or press. If he needs distance from everything to make it through today—well, she understands that more than she’d like.  
   
Valentine drops back to sidle towards Nate. They keep their voices low, but the external microphone on her power armor is keen enough.  
   
“Figured you’d be sticking closer to her in a fight.”  
   
“I need to learn how she moves, and I’d rather keep her in my field of view. I trust myself not to shoot her in the back by mistake.”  
   
Kaelyn’s eavesdropping is cut short when Curie abandons her inspection of a decrepit pub and propels herself back to the main group. “Surely there are still institutes of learning about. We must find them.”  
   
Kaelyn starts. The word ‘institute’ has been ground into her memory, associated now with one institute in particular. No one notices thanks to the power armor. “Until recently there was a reclusive group called the Institute. They were scientists, yes, but kidnapped people to use as test subjects in highly unethical experiments. So don’t be surprised if people are a little leery of scientists and institutes right now.”  
   
“Oh, how terrible! Science should benefit all. What purpose did they have for abducting innocents?”  
   
This time Curie lets her be after only a few rounds of questioning, perhaps detecting Kaelyn’s recalcitrance on the subject.  
   
At lunchtime they take shelter in the shade of the freeway overpass, discovering a ghoul and Gunner-free section that has fallen to the ground. Nate wanders to the southern railing and sits with his feet dangling over the edge. His rifle remains in easy reach, while he fiddles with the pip-boy latched around his wrist. Alexis repaired it and bequeathed it him as a thank you for helping Erin and Austin. “Can’t be a proper vault dweller without a pip-boy,” she’d quipped.  
   
Kaelyn’s about to follow when Valentine touches her arm. “Let him have a few minutes to clear his head.” She’s ready to protest, but his next words kill her response in her chest by weighting it with river stones. “You wear that face often enough.”  
   
She looks to his hunched back, devoid of his earlier stiffness. Tries to ward off the ache in her chest.  
   
“’S something of a paradox, but if time’s the problem, it’s also the solution.”  
   
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she admits, quietly, “I feel—guilty. I feel, well, somewhat better. But Nate obviously isn’t.”  
   
Valentine rests a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe that just means you can cover for him now. Be strong while he’s vulnerable. And vice versa, if it comes to it.”  
   
She reaches up to cover his steel hand with her own. The knobs on his joints and the points of his fingertips dig into her skin. “Have you ever considered moonlighting as a relationship counselor?”  
   
A chuckle rumbles in his throat. “Think I’ll stick to thugs and murderers. Less hassle that way—I only gotta pick one side to support.”  
   
Taking off her fedora, Kaelyn runs a hand through her sweaty hair and fans her face. Even in the shade, cloying heat creeps into their sanctuary. She glances around, and her stomach drops an inch when she can’t see Curie. The bot has meandered to a nearby watering hole to watch a pair of stingwings flit through the air, and protests when they dart at her to attack. She protests again when Kaelyn and Valentine shoot the stingwings.  
   
Valentine ducks his head to murmur, “I’ll keep an eye on our new friend.” At her appreciative nod, he turns to the robot in question and says, “So, Curie, how are you liking your first day outta the vault?”  
   
Kaelyn strolls away before she can get sucked into their conversation and pauses a few feet away from Nate, one foot poised to bolt at the slightest indication her presence is unwanted. But he shuffles on his perch to make room, even if his gaze remains fixed on the horizon.  
   
She lowers herself to the ground, wincing at the twinge in her thigh, and draws one knee up to her chest. Digging in her satchel, she fishes out some jerky for their lunch. Prepares to wait him out. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s okay too.  
   
It turns out she doesn’t have to wait long. Nate accepts a strip of jerky but turns it over in his hands instead of eating it. “What keeps you moving?”  
   
“I lost you. Then I lost Shaun. But I got you back.” A marvel, no matter how many days pass. “And Nick has always been there for me. Deacon, too.”  
   
Nate surveys the drop-off beneath his feet and the land beyond it, dipping down to the edge of the lake. Across the waters, distant buildings mark Boston’s inner city. “You know, I don’t think the skyscrapers are supposed to lean that far over.” He presses two fingers to the spot between his eyebrows. “Who am I kidding, just a few weeks ago everything was normal. And now it’s all…” he sweeps one arm across the gray-brown vista before them.  
   
“Hold on to that. Because I know this isn’t what Boston should look like, I feel it in my gut, but I don’t remember what it’s supposed to be.”  
   
When they’re ready to keep moving, Kaelyn offers the power armor to Nate. It might, if not cheer him up, then take his thoughts off their son. He accepts without fanfare, taking his time to inspect the suit and run through a series of checks before declaring himself ready. It must be some kind of standard procedure in the army. Maybe she should ask him to show her later.  
   
Kaelyn switches on the radio in the mid-afternoon for Curie’s benefit, to prove that functioning radio towers still exist. The further north they go, the drier the landscape becomes until the puddles and clusters of mushrooms are traded for hills of rippling brown grass and woods of bare maples.  
   
Valentine slows down with a tinny grunt; at Kaelyn’s questioning look, he points around her shoulder. “Above the trees.”  
   
She follows the line of his skeletal steel finger to a pillar of smoke billowing in the distance. Nate halts beside her, his helmet cocking in the direction of the smoke. The radio on his suit clicks. “Should we check it out?”  
   
Kaelyn’s gaze jumps between it and the woods, where the road is splintered and bent like a broken leg. There’s some niggling detail that makes her nervous. On a hunch, she checks her pip-boy’s map. There’s a Minutemen settlement in that general direction: Sunshine Tidings Co-op.  
   
At that moment Radio Freedom’s announcer reports, “ _We_ _’ve just received word that Sunshine Tidings Co-op northwest of Concord has gone off the grid. Requesting any nearby Minutemen investigate at once.”_  
   
Kaelyn unshoulders her sniper rifle. “That answers it.”  
   
Nate takes point, slow and wary where Kaelyn would be quick and alert, but he notices her weapon in hand and directs her to a nearby hillock to scout. She crawls up and slides into a decent position beside a fallen log that offers a measure of cover—in the concealment sense, not the protection sense. Her scope is powerful enough to convey the grim details. Two of the shacks still smolder, and there’s yet a glimpse of orange inside the maws of their broken windows. A bonfire is also alight in the center of the settlement, flames licking at the rusted husk of a car. The only movement comes from smoke, billowing like gray tapestries in a strong breeze, heralding the site of danger. No one is still fighting; at least not within her scope’s range of vision.  
   
Kaelyn retraces her path to where the others wait. Even encased in a layer of steel, Nate still cocks his head when he’s about to ask her a question.  
   
“No movement that I can see,” she reports. “Ferals are ruled out. Several of the cabins are on fire. Right now it looks like raiders, possibly super mutants. I couldn’t see any survivors, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”  
   
Nate takes the lead, again setting a slow, wary pace. Dogmeat prowls beside him, head lowered and ears cocked. His hackles rise with every step. The trees soon clear to offer a view of the clear hill where the co-op’s shacks are clustered. Pungent smoke swirls around the clearing. It almost masks the smell of roasted flesh.  
   
Kaelyn and Preston had been the ones to clear ferals from the Co-op to make it safe for some of the Abernathys’ friends. Greta, the leader of the band, had shaken both Kaelyn and Preston’s hands when they’d later introduced themselves to her.  
   
Greta’s the first one they find. Face down outside the grain shed, a pipe pistol in hand, her back a mass of black burns.  
   
Curie bobs nearby. “I’m afraid there is nothing that could have been done for her without proper medical equipment.”  
   
“Look at the cluster of shots,” Nate says. “Pretty damn accurate.”  
   
“Laser weaponry,” Valentine says. “Think we can rule out super mutants. Not their weapon of choice. Gunners, maybe. Brotherhood’s possible but would need a motive.”  
   
Kaelyn presses her lips into a hard line. Crouches down to close Greta’s eyes There’s nothing to do but to harden her heart and find whoever’s responsible.  
   
Professor Goodfeels the hacked Mr Handy bobs between the shacks, calling, “Groovy!”  
   
The settlers had found him too amusing to reprogram and let him be. Besides, Greta had heard about a Mr Handy unit that once cut off someone’s leg when they had a sprained toe, and remained wary of General Atomics’ base programming ever since.  
   
Valentine tilts his head towards the brahmin pen. “Slaughtered the brahmin, too. Not the work of your average raiders.”  
   
Kaelyn stands up to check for herself, and that saves her life. A white-hot burst slams into her back, where her head had been a moment earlier. She pitches forward. Ballistic weave is made to stop projectile weapons. Intense heat radiates through her jacket to burn her back, like she’s fallen into a furnace.  
   
“Behind us!” Valentine hooks a hand under Kaelyn’s elbow to yank her up. They dive behind a nearby tractor in a hail of blue laser beams; Nate holds his ground.  
   
A flit of black, and the shadow dissolves.  
   
Kaelyn hisses. “Courser!”  
   
Nate snaps, “What the hell is a courser?!”  
   
“Institute synths! Hard to kill!”  
   
Curie protests, “My primary purpose is not combat!”  
   
“How about a secondary purpose?” Valentine calls back.  
   
Cranking her laser musket, Kaelyn dares to peer around the tractor, seeking spots of flat grass or small clouds of dust where invisible feet tread. The billowing smoke belched from the fire changes direction and—there. She fires, hitting the silhouette of clear air, but it doesn’t slow.  
   
“Fire in the hole!” Nate throws a frag grenade and lopes to cover.  
   
Dirt explodes, concealing the deadly shrapnel flying in all directions. The combination burns her eyes but she has to find the courser, find him somewhere in the mess of smoke and dust. All she sees are a pair of broken sunglasses and a trail of blood.  
   
The courser is gone.  
   
“We need better cover,” Nate barks. “To the house! Curie, go!”  
   
He fires wildly into the surrounding scrub to make a distraction while Curie bobs up the porch. Blue laser fire cuts through the smoke to blacken her chassis, and she exclaims in alarm. The other three all fire through the bonfire the courser now hides behind, wise to Nate’s trick of coughing up dust.  
   
Nate steps up to catch the courser’s attention. Kaelyn touches Valentine’s shoulder. “Your turn.”  
Heart thumping as loud as her gun’s rapport, she seeks the source of the laser fire. While Valentine bolts to Curie, she empties her clip into the smoke. Then it goes quiet again.  
   
Risking a glance sideways, she sees Valentine has safely made it to the cabin. He grunts, peering around the doorway. “Not gonna lull us into a false sense of—ung!”  
   
He goes down, trench coat charred, fedora tumbling away in the wind.  
   
“Nick!”  
   
He doesn’t get up.  
   
Fear bursts on her tongue, sharp and cold. Kaelyn rushes out, ignoring Nate’s yell, and his voice is drowned out by the hiss of a laser. Pain knifes through her nerves, the laser bolt deadening her left arm. Hitting the ground, she coughs through the dust and smoke. The acrid tang of scorched leather turns her stomach.  
   
“Lyn!” A burst of gunfire punctuates his shout. “Cover! Now!”  
   
Snatching up her musket, she scrambles to get back into cover, landing hard. Fire crawls up her shoulder at the movement and she gasps. With one arm useless, she has to swap her musket for Deliverer. Nate retreats to her position  
   
Kaelyn glances around for the courser and has to double take. Check her vision isn’t lying. The direction of the shot. “Look out! There are _two_ of—!”  
   
That’s all she manages before another volley of shots strike the vulnerable joint in his elbow, blowing out one of the hydraulics. From the opposite direction a laser hits Nate’s turned back, dangerously close to the fusion core.  
   
“Nate!”  
   
Kaelyn empties her clip firing at the nearest courser, but he’s already gone.  
   
A laser bolt whizzes past her temple and she ducks. When she peers over her cover to search for the courser, another trio of shots driver her back down. Scooting to a new position, she has only an added half-second when she pops out of cover before another volley of shots drive her back down.  
   
In a moment of clarity, she sees the others occupied by one courser, while the other keeps her pinned down. Curie has gotten involved in the firefight now, firing off her own little laser as she takes off in Valentine’s direction. Nate can’t maneuver in the damaged power armor, but he’s focused on the courser steadily advancing on them, his back to Kaelyn—and the second courser.  
   
If she can lead this one away, the others should be able to kill the first courser.  
   
She hopes.  
   
Kaelyn bolts for the woods. She hits her stealth boy, for whatever limited good it will do. Against a courser, the tiniest advantage can make a difference. Although she has to strain to breathe quietly, she can’t hear any sounds of pursuit.  
   
The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.  
   
Inches to her right, tree bark explodes, charred. The cloudy smell of burning wood smothers the cold adrenaline on her tongue. Biting back a noise of surprise, she darts away between two shrubs. None of the trees here are good for climbing, so she follows the incline in a zigzag pattern. A number of shots ring out behind her, too close for comfort.  
   
She only realizes her mistake when she bursts into a clearing. The ground drops away to a wide creek. Kaelyn backs up, half-turns to scurry into the woods.  
   
A shot hits her square in the back, and she rolls away even as the searing energy seeps through the ballistic weave. Kaelyn half-turns to fire back at the shadow detaching from the treeline, her attention divided between the rapidly approaching courser and finding a route back into the woods.  
   
The courser drives her back with calculated shots; a black scorch mark near her boot, a cold blue laser beam beside her head. Toying with her. The creek gurgles behind her, warning her that there’s nowhere else to run.  
   
Something explodes in the distance. A bellow of fire. A fresh gout of smoke to billow in the breeze.  
   
A fusion core could detonate like that.  
   
Kaelyn’s heart constricts, searching the treeline for something, anything—  
   
And the courser fills her vision. She raises Deliverer but he twists it out of her grip. Pain spikes along her wrist.  
   
His face remains blank. Infuriatingly so. “You betrayed Father. It was unwise to make an enemy of the Institute, ma’am.”  
   
The courser’s arm snaps out to lift her by the neck so forcefully, so casually, that the world lurches. She scrabbles and flails, digging her nails into his wrist, kicking at whatever parts of him she can reach. But his hand is a vice that proceeds to crush her throat. A starburst of white explodes across her vision, and her ears ring. Oxygen-starved limbs flail of their own accord but no amount of struggling can dislodge him. Using up the last of the oxygen in her lungs, she drops one hand to her belt. Claws for her switchblade. He glances away, and that’s all she needs. Jams the knife into his forearm.  
   
The courser flinches; not enough drop her. Their eyes meet. White roars in her ears, overwhelms her vision, and the world lurches—  
   
The courser doesn’t drop her. He flings her away, and she plummets into the water.  
   
For one panicked moment she gasps for air, sucks in river water. Gray stars dance across her eyes in a dizzying rhythm. Spluttering, she claws her way to the surface. Her thrashing achieves little but to froth the water as the current hooks into her sodden clothes and drags. She breaches the surface again and sinks, her feet clamped in cement from the weight of her boots, the strap of her sniper rifle catching on a submerged branch.  
   
It’s easier to float as white darkens to gray.  
   
Something latches onto her shoulder and pulls.  
   
A multitude of small, hard things at her back, shifting beneath her as she’s dragged. Her ankle catches on something solid and she pushes. Breaks the surface.  
   
Rolling onto her side, she coughs up mouthfuls of water onto the creek bed, so violently her eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of her skull. Not that it would matter, blind as she is, nerves afire as white spots dance across her eyes. Water laps at her boots and dry heat bakes her, the gravel hot underneath her. Blinking away stinging droplets, the sky looms above her, its blue dome cracked by zigzagging branches.  
   
A wet black nose fills her vision, sniffing at her cheeks, and a puff of pungent breath carries the trace of a whine. Dogmeat nudges her and whines again.  
   
She coughs again, the furious expulsion of air downright painful, and Dogmeat licks her face. Every breath hurts her throat. Tiny bells tinkle in her ears. Her battered body aches. Still she drags in breath after desperate breath, and about half of them actually bring air into her lungs.  
   
Nate’s head blocks out the sky, and even with his back to the sun she can see how pale he is, freckles stark under streaks of sweat and blood.  
   
Alive.  
   
“Nate—”  
   
“Easy, easy.” Crouching by her side, he presses a hand into her shoulder to keep her down. “Don’t move just yet.” The gravel is hot and hard under her back, and Nate’s hands are clammy with sweat as he holds the sides of her jaw to keep her head still. His fingers probe the sides of her neck for any injury. “Does that hurt?”  
   
She tries to clear her throat but instead hacks up phlegm. “Just the bruises.”  
   
“Can you curl your toes for me? Does it hurt?”  
   
She can—not that he can tell with her boots—and her socks squeeze out river water at the movement. “Doesn’t… hurt.”  
   
“Good.” The word is barely more than a relieved exhale.  
   
Tired of looking up at the sky, she moves to sit up but Nate again settles one heavy hand on her collarbones. He turns away to shout, “Found her!”  
   
She reaches for him, her fingers curling around his knee. “The—coursers?”  
   
“Dead.” His face closes off.  
   
Another pair of boots come into her field of vision, and the hiss of Curie’s jet propulsion sounds odd bouncing off the gravel. Or maybe it sounds different down here on the ground. Or maybe it’s because she just drowned.  
   
Curie too forbids Kaelyn from sitting up, and lowers the strength on her jet propulsion to get closer to her patient. They administer a stimpak and check for broken bones, but the medical babble between Nate and Curie mostly goes over her head until they reach a consensus. But Kaelyn’s distracted by another set of boots on the gravel.  
   
“Kid, what have I told you about going swimming?”  
   
Her throat is a mess of fire when she swallows. Her voice can’t raise above a rasp. “Don’t... wear boots?”  
   
Valentine’s upside down face doesn’t even twitch, although a servo grinds somewhere in his chest. “You’ve spent too much time with Deacon.” But he still holds her hand; for once his synthetic flesh feels the same temperature as her own.  
   
Alive. They’re all alive.  
   
Kaelyn tunes back in to Curie’s voice. “—needs to be monitored for the next twenty four hours. The chance of a heart attack is highest—”  
   
“In the first hour. I know.” Nate’s voice is grim. Kaelyn brushes her fingers over his knee, and he is so very gentle when he covers her hand with his own. “I’d feel a whole lot better if we could get her to a hospital, but I bet those don’t exist anymore.”  
   
“No,” Valentine agrees, “but finding shelter is always a winning idea.”  
   
Finally, finally Kaelyn is permitted to sit up, with an array of hands and appendages waiting just in case her body gives out.  
   
Nate scoops her into his arms before she can stand. “Don’t fight me on this,” he warns.  
   
All things considered, she’s happy enough to curl against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. When they pass the place where she was thrown into the river, she closes her eyes. Tells herself it’s only because she’s tired.  
   
“If only we had some sort of gurney,” Curie muses.  
   
“Be a trip and a half riding across this terrain,” Nate says.  
   
Between a gurney and her husband’s arms, Kaelyn prefers the latter mode of transport. Valentine detaches from the group to investigate the buildings that still stand. The first shack he moves to he freezes on the threshold and backs out without a word, but a small shed some ways away from the main settlement suffices.  
   
Kaelyn is preoccupied by the massive black mark where the tractor used to be. Scrap metal is strewn across the ground, shared by the kinetic force. A body—or part of a body—is pinned under what used to be an engine.  
   
“Oh! Can we stay here?” Curie asks as Nate settles Kaelyn on a sleeping bag and runs a towel over her.  
   
“Sure can,” he answers, and squeezes Kaelyn’s hand.  
   
He sits against the wall with her head pressed into his hip. He runs his fingers over her shoulder and down her ribs, and then back up. Lightly, gently.  
   
They huddle together under the blankets as if they’re safe.

—

Kaelyn opens her eyes to sunlight peeping through the cracks in the ceiling and wonders when she fell asleep in the first place. An IV line trails out from under her sleeve, connected to a bag of radaway hanging from a nearby shelf. Nate is still by her side, leaning against the wall with one hand resting on her hair. She rolls over and rests a hand on his thigh. A quiet part of her not miserable with aches and pains points out that waking up with her husband beside her is still an unexpected, if welcome, occurrence.  
   
The hiss of Curie’s jet propulsion warns of her approach. “Ah, you’re awake! No, no, there’s no need to talk. You don’t want to further damage your windpipe. If you are in pain, hold up one hand.”  
   
Kaelyn waves her hand in a so-so motion, then gives a thumbs down when Curie asks if she wants any medication. She quickly learns not to move her head.  
   
Curie holds a can of purified water in one of her appendages, which she holds out to Nate. “Monsieur, you had best drink water to replenish the liquids you lost.”  
   
Now it’s Kaelyn’s turn to watch with some concern, wondering what Curie meant. While Nate sips the water, she looks him over from her less-than-ideal position. Dirt and soot streak his face—no surprise there—but can’t conceal an unusual paleness of his complexion. Dark circles have carved themselves under his eyes and the fine crows feet at the corners of his eyes are pinched. More than anything, he looks tired.  
   
Nate notices her watching him and swallows roughly. “You and I need to have a talk about battlefield tactics. My heart’s going to give out at this rate.”  
   
She skims her fingers along the seam of his trousers. “Well, we can’t have that.”  
   
The door is yanked open; Kaelyn’s hand tightens on Nate’s knee for a half-second until she recognizes Valentine’s fedora, his eyes glowing in the dim space of the shed, a cigarette perched between his lips. Dogmeat trots in behind him and settles beside Kaelyn. Valentine offers her a smile when he notices she’s awake. “Mornin’, partner. Feeling any better?”  
   
With Curie’s advice in mind, she gives him a thumbs up. Then flicks her gaze between Valentine and the door, raising an eyebrow.  
   
They’ve had enough nonverbal conversations in the past that he picks up on her meaning right away. “Gave the bodies their last respects and took a poke around the shacks. Couldn’t find anything that would interest not one but two coursers.” Valentine shakes his head. “Imagine they’re somewhat scarce now, so whatever they were after had to be important.”  
   
_You betrayed Father_.  
   
In that moment, her heart hurts more than her throat. Sensing her distress, Dogmeat snuggles more firmly against her side and licks her jaw.  
   
Kaelyn’s swallow is painful. “They must really want me dead. Huh.”  
   
Something in Valentine’s manner shifts. The synthetic material of his face cannot match all the subtleties of organic flesh, no matter what human impulses have been uploaded into his data banks. His yellow eyes fix on her. “How could they have possibly known you were— no. This settlement is close to Sanctuary. Close enough you’d be the best bet to check it out.” Briefly closing his eyes, he mutters, “Dammit.”  
   
Laughing is a mistake; her throat is too sore, too hoarse, for anything but a rattling cough. “Shouldn’t be surprised the Institute hit back. Whatever’s left of it.” Desdemona had anticipated a retaliation. If only Kaelyn had taken that prediction to heart.  
   
Valentine’s mouth thins around his cigarette. “Guess it was on the cards.”  
   
“Is this normal action for the Institute?” Nate looks between them.  
   
Kaelyn manages to speak around the gravel in her throat. “Destroying settlements, yes. Eliminating known threats, yes. Assigning _two_ coursers to the job, no.” She gives an inelegant snort. “I think I should feel flattered.”  
   
“Worry might be better,” Nate says, voice sharp. “When they learn this attempt failed, they’ll strike again. Hell, maybe we’ll see _three_ coursers next time.”  
   
Kaelyn shakes her head despite the sharp ache in her neck. “How many resources can they waste on us? How many times until they _learn_ to leave me and mine alone?”  
   
Valentine frowns. “That means that there’s a pocket of Institute people out there givin’ orders.”  
   
With luck, if coursers are coming for her, that means she’s the most obvious, high-priority target and the Railroad is still safe. She’ll have to check in with HQ, consult PAM and plan with Dez—but no. That isn’t her fight anymore. Isn’t her war.  
   
Even though she gave it up, the thought they could be in imminent danger itches in the back of her mind. Maybe they’ll let her stroll into HQ, give her account, and leave without being roped into any more shenanigans. Better yet, maybe she can send word through a tourist or a dead drop.  
   
Nate rests a hand on her shoulder, gently digging his fingers into tense muscle. “You all right?”  
   
She sighs. “Just thinking.”  
   
He grunts softly in acknowledgment, eyes dark. “If this Institute can expend resources hunting you down, they have to be secure somewhere. Did they have a secondary base? Any evacuation point?”  
   
Kaelyn shakes her head. “They thought the surface was beneath them. Ironic, really. They shouldn’t have any base on the surface or someone would have already found it.”  
   
“ _Shouldn_ _’t_ ,” he stresses. “But you don’t actually know.”  
   
She can’t argue with that.  
   
“You can’t afford to assume they won’t strike again, either.” Nate runs a hand over his face.  
   
Kaelyn perks up at the prospect of leaving. Nate holds her through Curie’s next examination, and his fingers are never far from the pulse point in her wrist. Given a cautious all-clear by Curie—who insists that if Kaelyn feels lightheaded at any point she will need to stop and rest—they pack their supplies and head outside. Nate hovers, because of course he does, but she’s happy to have him there. If only because there's something absurdly funny about a nanny in power armor. Kaelyn stops a moment at the funeral pyres to say her goodbyes, then they strike out for Sanctuary.

They make good time on the road, between Sunshine Tiding’s proximity to Sanctuary and the absence of more coursers. With a few days of bed rest and Curie’s ministrations, Kaelyn heals up. Thanks to several carefully-injected stimpaks, the worst of the bruising lightens to a mottled green, even if it still hurts to swallow. Kaelyn can’t look at it in the mirror, lest she recognize the imprint of fingers. Her voice remains raspy; there’s some question whether the damage will be permanent.  
   
Kaelyn flips off the bathroom lights, thinking praise in Sturges’ general direction for rewiring the house, and slips into the bedroom. Nate is sprawled on his stomach, arms wrapped around the pillow, one foot dangling off the bed. She has to brush her fingers over the pulse in his neck, check that he is still breathing. He stirs, fingers digging into the pillow, but doesn’t wake.  
   
He sleeps like he did before. When he came home on leave, or those first months after he retired: broken, restless starts between long hours of anxious waiting, getting too well acquainted with the ceiling. When she’d been in the third trimester of her pregnancy, she also found herself woken by nightmares, and they spent many quiet hours talking about everything and nothing until one of them drifted off.  
   
This night it isn’t a disturbing pregnancy-induced dream that wakes her but the sensation of a hand, of flesh made steel, snapping her neck. She jolts up from the sticky sheets, her breaths shallow and so very _loud_. Massaging her throat, Kaelyn focuses on the sweet taste of oxygen and not the sound of crunching bone. Beside her, the blanket has been peeled back, betraying the emptiness of the bed. Too unsettled to return to sleep, she pads around the house.  
   
Kaelyn finds her husband in the nursery.  
   
Leaning against the wall with his arms folded, he has eyes only for the broken ribs of the crib. Each exhale is soft, afraid to disturb the room. Kaelyn halts on the threshold, uncertain, and his head turns briefly in her direction. She doesn’t know if what she’s seeing is the glint of his eyes or simply her brain insisting that he should be looking at her. In the dark, it doesn’t hurt as much to see the silhouettes of the dresser and the crib with its broken mobile. All of Shaun’s toys—those that survived the intervening centuries—are arranged on the shelf. She only knows that because she organized everything in this room herself.  
   
Shaun’s room is a shrine she prefers to avoid.  
   
She wonders if she should get rid of the useless belongings, but the idea of selling them to a trader makes her chest seize, while the idea of burying them with Shaun doesn’t seem right. The baby she carried and the man he became occupy two separate spaces in her heart, divided on either side of a great chasm by time and expectations.  
   
“I’m never going to teach him to walk, or to ride a bike, or to play baseball.” Nate’s throat bobs as he swallows.  
   
Kaelyn rests her hand over his. “Never going to read him bedtime stories or play charades or pick him up after school.”  
   
Nate smiles then, a profoundly unhappy thing. “Shaun loved charades.”  
   
She remembers the afternoons they spent sitting on the living room floor, Shaun giggling at one of Nate’s overeager mimicries while Codsworth provided commentary from the sidelines. Nate leans into her and she leans back, and only by the grace of the wall behind them do they manage to stay upright.  
   
He sniffles and clears his throat. “I was looking forward to the dad jokes.”  
   
She chokes on a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Typical.”  
   
But her eyes remain dry. All the nights of crying and now she is beyond tears when they are supposed to be needed most.  
   
His face is stricken, one hand pressing against the mostly-healed scar below his shoulder.“Why keep us alive if all they wanted was Shaun?” His voice is very quiet.  
   
“The Institute wanted a backup related to their primary subject in case anything happened to Shaun. What I don’t get is why they shut down life support for everyone else.” Her voice becomes biting: “They were perfectly good sources of pre-war DNA. I thought scientists would be interested in that.”  
   
Nate has no answer for her.  
   
She manages to lead Nate back to bed and they tangle together under the blankets. Tucking his head under her chin, she pushes past her instinctive flinch at the touch, the animal part of her brain anticipating another attack.  
   
He skims a hand along her ribs. “I lost Shaun. I can’t lose you, too.”  
   
That she understands too well. Not the fear of losing them—you can’t fear what has already happened—but she shies away from the remembered pain. Both what she suffered and what she might inflict on him.  
   
“You aren’t going to,” she says, even though she knows she can promise no such thing. The future can shift in a heartbeat. “I know how to survive.”  
   
They whisper fears and reassurances to each other until sleep conquers them both.  
   
The next morning she shambles into the kitchen and Nate passes her a mug of coffee. She accepts with murmured thanks. He leans on the counter opposite her, cupping his hands around his own mug. He looks more worn down than ever, haunted by more than the gray shadows of grief that lurk in his eyes. “Honey, we need to talk.”  
   
“That’s never a good sign.” She shifts on her stool. “What’s this about?”  
   
Nate shifts his weight, settling his elbows on the counter top, and touches her wrist. Draws in a breath to bolster himself. “That’s twice now you’ve been injured on my watch. I wasn’t kidding when I said my heart would give out. So I’ve gotta ask: how much combat training do you have?”  
   
Kaelyn pulls back, stung. “Doesn’t experience count more than training? Besides, I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?”  
   
Nate’s gaze sweeps the tense line of her shoulders before he responds. “You have, and it proves you’ve got smarts or skill or both. But there’s always room to improve. Hence why I’m asking.”  
   
Suddenly her coffee seems rather fascinating. Of all the morning conversations they could be having, this has to be the most absurd. Torn between the mixture of shame and stubborn pride that leaves her on edge, she resists the urge to fidget. “I’m not normally jumped by two coursers, you know.”  
   
It comes out more snappish than she intends, and Nate holds up his hands. “All right, let’s back up a step. Your walls are up and I don’t know why. Care to explain what’s up?”  
   
Her own coffee is dark and strong and steaming unlike his milky beverage, and she sips the bitter liquid to bolster herself. Not to procrastinate. Of course not. “I used to be above this. I used to be a lawyer, Nate, and now I’m a killer.”  
   
Nate hooks one finger under her chin to tip her head up. He searches her face, then ducks his head with a rueful smile and drums his fingers on the edge of the counter. “I’d hate to know what you think of my time in service, then.”  
   
It’s so left-field of what she expects that she blinks. “I was only ever relieved when you came home.”  
   
Stretching an arm across the counter, he touches the back of her hand. “Like I said before, if this is what’s kept you alive, then I can’t complain. You _know_ I can’t. So please stop worrying about what I think.” Argument thus dissolved, he asks again, “So how did you learn to fight? Other than the school of hard knocks.”  
   
This time she answers. “Preston taught me how to shoot. Deacon taught me how to use a sniper rifle and how to find the best position to use it. Nick honed my observation skills so I won’t cross a tripwire.”  
   
He nods. “Okay. Here's something I noticed. If you sight a hostile, you need to yell it so I can hear.”  
   
She shakes her head. “If I make a noise, they know where I am, and that I’ve seen them.”  
   
Incredulity scrawls over his face. “That’s, uh, not how it works.”  
   
“For you, maybe. I fight by stealth and if I can’t handle it, I run.”  
   
“Which works when you’re on you’re own, but not when you’re with me. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head and I need to know everything you see—how many enemies, incoming grenades, all of it.” Coffee abandoned, he covers her hands with his. “Please, honey. I’m gonna do everything in my power to watch your back—and I hope you’ll return the favor. But I can’t do it without your help.”  
   
She bites back a sigh. What has the world come to? “Okay.”  
   
By Nate’s suggestion, they go out to train together. Nate teaches her army jargon, makes her practice barking them out as if she were yelling to be heard over nearby gunfire. He shows her how he usually moves in a fight, breaking left or right to the nearest cover. They agree that, circumstances permitting, Nate will lead the way in any fights, providing a distraction the way Valentine or Preston would, so she can pick off easy marks. In return she shows him her strategy with her stealth boy, how she’ll only employ it if she isn’t the last line of defense between an enemy and someone she’s protecting. All in all, their agreed tactics aren't so different from how she and Valentine operate.  
   
It’s a side of Nate she’s only seen a handful of times—and half of those were in the field where she was preoccupied with the people shooting at them. Underneath it all he’s still her husband; she recognizes him in the smiles he gives her and his brief moments of affectionate praise.  
   
During their drink break, Sturges pushes away from the tree he’d been leaning against and approaches. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “but the Castle came in on the radio askin’ for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone’s wondering what Kaelyn and Nate look like, I recently rediscovered [this piece](http://eluvisen.tumblr.com/post/142067783366/good-morning-kiss-october-23-2077) I made a while back.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

“Hi, Preston,” Kaelyn croaks.   
    
He notices her husky voice at once. “ _Are you all right?”_   
    
“Sunshine Tidings Co-op was attacked by two coursers. We took them out but I took a few hard knocks.”   
    
“ _Coursers? Well, shit. Guess it isn’t over with the Institute yet. What would the Institute want with one of our settlements?”_   
    
“We searched the place but couldn’t find anything that would attract their attention. They didn’t even take any food, if there’s a hungry group of scientists lurking in the woods.” Kaelyn pauses, recalling the group of hungry scientists they _had_ seen. But there hadn’t been any coursers with them. “From what one of the coursers said, I—think they may have attacked the settlement to draw me out. Sunshine Tidings wasn’t far from Sanctuary. I’m sorry, Preston.”   
    
“ _Not your fault,”_ he says at once. The same thing Valentine and Nate had said. “ _Glad you made it through in one piece, at least. I was going to ask you to come to the Castle, but if you’re still recovering—”_   
    
“It sounds worse than it is,” Kaelyn assures him, and ignores Nate’s irritated look. “What’s the occasion?”   
    
Now Preston’s tone lightens, becomes teasing. “ _Besides Ronnie wanting words with you?”_   
    
“I feel like ‘words’ is a euphemism for ‘punch my lights out’.”   
    
Preston chuckles. “ _I can’t have two of my colonels KOing each other. And that’s what this is about: the Minutemen are big enough now that I want to call in all my colonels. With the Institute destroyed, there’s a lot we need to talk about.”_   
    
Kaelyn drums her fingers on the bench top. “I don’t recall actually accepting that honorary colonelship.”   
    
A pause. Then: “ _But you’ll still come, right? I could use some backup over here.”_   
    
She chuckles at the worry in his tone. “No one’s ganging up on you on my watch. We’ll leave tomorrow—” at the look Nate shoots her, she hastily changes it to, “the day after tomorrow. Maybe the day after that. When my doctor says I can.”   
    
“ _Take care,_ Colonel _Prescott. I’ll see you when you get here.”_   
    
Kaelyn rolls her eyes. “You too, _General_ Garvey.”   
    
A burst of static signals the end of the transmission. Kaelyn hops off the stool and knocks into Nate’s chest. He snakes his arms around her waist and mutters into her hair, “Colonel Prescott. You _still_ outrank me, dammit.”   
    
Curie assigns Kaelyn one more day of healing before they set out. The morning they leave dawns swift and bright, edging the curtains with burning gold. Nate makes a noise of complaint and rolls over, leaning more heavily against Kaelyn. She should get up, but every fiber in her being wants to stay right here, forever. Or maybe for just a few more hours. She runs a hand along the broad expanse of his back, affection warring with responsibility.   
    
Responsibility wins. Eventually.   
    
Nate hangs around while she gets dressed, peering over her shoulder at the contents of her steamer trunk. It seems that no matter how many times he inspects her weapons cache, his curiosity will never be satisfied. Kaelyn ignores him as best she can as she digs through the closet. Her official Minutemen gear—the blue coat and hat, a chest piece of combat armor branded with the Minutemen insignia—is folded somewhere in the back, and smells a touch musty when she pulls it out.   
    
Soft footsteps pad around the bed. “So who is this Ronnie, and why does she want to…” A white, auburn-haired arm reaches past her to grab the saber leaning in the corner of the closet. Nate turns it over in his hands, running a thumb along the hilt, drawing the blade a few inches from its scabbard. His eyes cut up to hers. “This is a Chinese sword.”   
    
“It is,” she says, and answers the unspoken question in his eyes. “I got it from a ghoulified Chinese captain. His submarine was responsible for the bombs that detonated around Boston.”   
    
Nate goes still. His expression cracks before it closes off. “Submarines, huh? Well, shit. If he’s a ghoul, that means he’s still alive after all this time? Or _was_ alive, am I right?”   
    
She shakes her head. “I helped him repair his submarine so he could go home, and he gave me this as thanks.”   
    
Nate sucks in a breath. One moment passes, then another. “ _Why?”_   
    
Kaelyn meets his accusing gaze without hesitation. Steps closer, curls her hands around his own, feels every rigid knuckle under her palms. She smooths her thumbs over the raised tendons and says, sharp and hard, “Because if it had been _you_ stuck in China, yearning to return home, I’d hope someone would do the same for you.”   
    
With scant inches between them now, she can see his eyes dart across her face, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks in a circle of green. His throat bobs as he swallows. “That’s not— you let him go because you thought of me? _Really?”_   
    
She’s the first to relent, backing off and letting her shoulders drop. But despite all that, it isn’t a surrender. “You didn’t see him. He was stuck in his submarine, his _qian ting_ —” and no doubt, somewhere, Chinese survivors are shuddering at an American butchering their language “—for two hundred and ten years. He regretted it. And—maybe I know something about having that much destruction on your conscience. The war’s long over, Nate, and _everyone lost.”_   
    
“So you said.”   
    
Claiming the officer’s saber from his grasp, Kaelyn leans it against the wall and pulls her shirt over her head. She changes into her padded undershirt and leather trousers with quick, economic movements. When she rests one foot on the edge of the bed to strap on a knee guard, Nate leans over to help. Pulling out the combat armor chest piece, she settles it over her shoulders and his experienced fingers find the straps to fasten. They work together; he takes the right side and she the left.   
    
“If you’ve got combat armor, why don’t you wear this normally?” He flicks the ballistic plating.   
    
“At a word? Conspicuous. And heavy. My normal jacket is lined with ballistic weave.” There isn’t a battle that goes by where she doesn’t thank the Railroad for that little modification.   
    
Kaelyn slips the blue coat over her shoulders, leaving it unbuttoned at the front to show off the insignia on her chest piece, and winds a wide sash around her waist. Nate holds up a hand; when she pauses he carefully unpins the stars from her collar. Captain Zao’s sword is attached to her belt to complete her uniform.   
    
From there she returns the favor, assisting Nate suit up in his preferred gear: his own combat armor under a thick gray-green jacket, and a scarf tucked beneath the collar. His old army boots and fingerless gloves complete the look.   
    
She’s a little less comfortable with Nate helping her sling her sniper rifle over her shoulder and discussing how much ammo they should take for the trip. It’s still—odd having him around while she preps her weapons, knowing he knows she’s used them. A knot in her chest has loosened since their talk, but it still needs time to truly sink in. All this time, she’d wondered what Nate would think of her newfound combat experience.   
    
As they troop down the hall, Kaelyn refuses to turn her head to the left, refuses to look at the closed nursery door, refuses to think about what’s on the other side. Codsworth hands them a bag of supplies and wishes them safe travels. On the front steps, looking back at her home, her breath catches like the click of a lock.   
    
Valentine hops off the stone wall near the bridge and crushes a cigarette beneath his heel at their approach. “Didn’t think you were leaving without your partner, I hope.”   
    
“Never,” Kaelyn says. “You can help carry the bags.”   
    
Valentine gives her a narrow-eyed look, harrumphing about humans and their squishy mortal needs, but slings an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug. Given the events of their last trip, no one questions Curie’s choice to accompany them, although from the way she talks Kaelyn suspects she’s joining them to gather more data on the Commonwealth.   
    
This eastward journey is mostly quiet, besides Curie’s exclamations at a new wonder. Her reactions are contrary to those of Nate’s and even Kaelyn’s when they first ventured to the surface. Curie somehow finds wonder in the brown landscape, broken by the decrepit remains of civilization, and curiosity in the mutated descendants of flora and fauna. Dogmeat bounds ahead, snapping at the occasional radroach, and investigates the odd car or brahmin carcass.   
    
That doesn’t mean they aren’t on alert for any threats, however. They choose a different route to navigate around Boston, this time heading as far eastward through the countryside as they can before cutting south to Bunker Hill. Quiet roads, away from trade routes, are what they seek. The fewer people who see them traveling, the better.   
    
It goes well until they near County Crossing, where woodland flirts with suburbia. A three-man squad of Minutemen wave them over when they notice Kaelyn’s attire and laser musket. Valentine and Curie field a few strange looks, but no one comments on their unusual traveling companions.   
    
Their leader—and he has to be the leader, from the way he puffs himself up, resting his laser musket on his meaty shoulder—touches the brim of his hat. “You with the Minutemen?”   
    
“That’s right,” Kaelyn says. “Heading to the Castle, in fact.”   
    
He nods. “If you see Bhatia, tell her Roger says hi. And that she still owes me a new pistol. But before you do, we got word of thieves near County Crossing. Would be glad for an assist. I don’t like their description—white coats? Out here?”   
    
Ah. That limits the possibilities considerably. “Laser weaponry?”   
    
“You know them?”   
    
“Sounds like more Institute stragglers. I wonder how many of them there are.” Time to find answers on the courser attack.   
    
Except the squad has a different idea. The scruffy blond goes a worryingly pale shade of white and checks his weapons. “We need to get them before they attack County Crossing!”   
    
A nasty grin cracks Roger’s face. “Time for a little payback, eh? You lot joining in?”   
    
“I, for one, would prefer this not end in violence,” Curie says, earning skeptical looks from the squad.   
    
“Slow down, cowboy,” Valentine rumbles. “Don’t be so quick to wish for bloodshed.”   
    
Before anyone can call Valentine’s loyalties into question—it’s a familiar path by now, and a tiring one—Kaelyn says, “I need to ask them some questions first.”   
    
Roger’s upper lip peels back from his teeth. “To hell with that. I say we go in fast and loud. Send a message that they shouldn’t mess with the Minutemen!”   
    
Great. A hothead. “I just said they could have valuable information. So follow my lead.”   
    
“I don’t have to take orders from you!”   
    
“Actually, you do,” Kaelyn retorts. “Colonel Prescott, formerly _General_ Prescott. There would be no Minutemen without me.”   
    
If she hopes an appeal to rank will help, she’s disappointed.   
    
“This is my turf, my squad and my job. They only follow me, not some trumped-up stranger who thinks she’s better than us.”   
    
“Enough!” Nate barks. His face is cold—no, closed off, in a way she has never quite seen before. Not even in combat. But she’s attended enough army parades to recognize the no-nonsense tone. “While you’re arguing, they could get away. Fall in or move along.”   
    
The third man looks to Roger, who wears an impressive scowl. No doubt aware that all eyes are on him, waiting for him to yield or fight.   
    
“This is _our_ job,” he repeats.   
    
Nate doesn’t budge. “Then _fall in._ ”   
    
They’re locked in their battle of wills for another moment, then Roger deflates. “Fine. But if they so much as threaten to harm County Crossing or anyone else, I’m taking them out.”   
    
It’s as good as they’re going to get, so Kaelyn nods. Distaste crawls in her stomach, staying any vengeful urges She might have. _Is this what I look like now?_ “Then let’s stop wasting time. Do you know where they are?”   
    
He only knows the general vicinity, so they set off into the woods to search. Once Valentine finds a torn white scrap of fabric, Dogmeat can pick up the trail. The signs of passage become more obvious as they move—broken branches, some caught strands of hair, a number of footprints around the edge of tea-brown puddles.   
    
Distant voices carry on the wind. Dogmeat sinks lower into the grass, ears flicking forward. Kaelyn motions for the others to be quiet as they close in on the Institute stragglers. A flash of white down the hill, barely twenty feet away, and she sinks into a crouch behind a nearby boulder, resting a hand on Dogmeat’s back to halt him.   
    
This is a different group to the one they encountered west of Boston. There are five of them, and only two have either the intelligence or good fortune to cover their Institute uniforms with plaid shirts and jackets. They huddle around an unlit fire pit, arguing.   
    
Nate grips her arm. “Could they have coursers?”   
    
Kaelyn surveys the surrounding woodland, grim realization shooting ice down her spine. “Could do. Everybody keep an eye out.” With that, she stands. Ready to duck down should they fire on her, she calls, “Sorry to interrupt.”   
    
The scientists freeze, the whites of their eyes visible even from this distance. No one draws a gun—she can spot only two, sitting useless on the ground. Banking that freeze will continue to win over fight or flight, she steps out from behind the boulder.   
    
A flash of red in her peripheral; Roger aims his laser musket. “All right, folks. You bastards were the ones that stole from County Crossing, yeah? Time to learn about Commonwealth justice.”   
    
“Goodness knows they all deserve it,” the third Minuteman mutters.   
    
A middle-aged woman with gray streaks at her temples is the first to find her voice. “We were starving! What would you have done?”   
    
It takes a few seconds for Kaelyn to place a name to the face: Rosalind Orman, one of the technicians in Advances Systems.   
    
Kaelyn edges past Roger to put herself between him and the Institute survivors; Valentine realizes what she’s doing and joins the body shield. Doing so dissolves the argument in the making as the Institute scientists gape at him.   
    
“What’s it doing wearing such strange clothes?” one woman hisses.   
    
Unfortunately for her, Valentine possesses superhuman hearing. “Nick Valentine, synth detective.”   
    
Rather than calming anyone down, his unique drawl and freedom to speak shocks the group even more.   
    
“Is it… malfunctioning?” That's Evan Watson, Kaelyn realizes, in a blue plaid shirt instead of his blue-sleeved uniform. Underneath his fear is a hint of curiosity.   
    
A smirk twists Valentine’s face. “Self-awareness ain’t a malfunction, kid. Now, about this thievery—”   
    
“I will not be lectured by a synth,” another man interrupts. Kaelyn is sure she's seen him before but can't recall his name.   
    
“Hey, you don’t talk to Nick like that,” Kaelyn snaps. “He has more humanity than anyone in the Institute ever did.”   
    
Big mistake.   
    
“You…” Dr Orman’s face twists as she recognizes Kaelyn. “Haven’t you done enough? Have you come to finish the job? Just leave us alone!”   
    
“I would, except a pair of coursers attacked a settlement and tried to kill me about a week ago.” Deceptively casual, as if this were just another investigation with Valentine, she asks, “Know anything about that?”   
    
The first woman’s eyes bug—at the accusation or the fact Kaelyn survived two coursers, she isn’t sure. “The SRB controls coursers, not us! I swear!”   
    
Kaelyn glances from face to face; they’re too uncertain for anyone to be lying, and none of their uniforms feature the SRB’s black. “But in the absence of the SRB, you’d have authority over any synths. Including coursers.”   
    
“Coursers don’t answer to just anybody,” Dr Watson cries, “and even if they did I haven’t seen any since that night—” he chokes on a sob.   
    
Kaelyn trades a look with Valentine; he inclines his head just slightly. She then asks, “have you seen or hear about any other groups of survivors?”   
    
“Do you think we’d still be here eating _fungus_ if we did?” Dr Orman snaps. “You ruined everything! The future of humanity—destroyed!”   
    
Resentment lodges in Kaelyn’s throat. The Minutemen shift behind her; there’s a sound of a laser musket cranking.   
    
“Slow down with the apocalyptic predictions,” Valentine says. “Humanity’s chugged along this far. Survived a nuclear war. Folks always find a way to manage, and it’ll be easier now, I wager, without the Institute breathing down our necks.”   
    
Kaelyn sweeps an arm. “On your way, then. And no more thievery. That’ll get you shot. Abandoned pre-war houses sometimes have tinned food or other supplies you can use.”   
    
“What?” Roger squawks, indignant. “You can’t just let them go! They’re with the Institute! They’ll kidnap us out of our beds and replace us with synths!”   
    
“Not without the means to create synths, they won’t.” Kaelyn gives the Institute survivors a pointed look, and they scurry away. Instead of backing up, the scientists run while glancing back over their shoulders, leading to one getting clipped by a low-hanging tree branch.   
    
Kaelyn fights a sigh.   
    
Roger curses. “Fine. You win. But if I ever see them near another settlement, they’ll be in the ground.”   
    
Maybe it’s bluster, maybe it’s a legitimate threat, but Kaelyn lets him have it to save face. “I think we’re done here, gentlemen.”   
    
Dissatisfaction is like an itch she can never satisfactorily scratch. No answers on who ordered the coursers to hunt her down, besides the obvious: that there are multiple groups of survivors, some better-equipped than others. And that someone out there still controls the remaining coursers. Something worries at the back of Kaelyn’s mind.   
    
Kidnapping and murder from the isolation of the Institute’s underground sanctuary is one thing. Thievery just to survive—that’s harder to condemn when starvation is an all-too-real threat out here. Especially for soft humans inexperienced with post-war surface life.   
    
After parting with the disgruntled Minutemen, they make it out of earshot before Nate remarks, “Didn’t you say you hadn’t accepted that promotion?”   
    
“I was teasing,” she says, curt. His unfamiliar manner puts her on edge.   
    
“You can’t have it both ways.” At her raised eyebrow, he says, “Either you’re a part of the command structure or you aren’t. Every time someone brings up the possibility of handing you responsibility, you baulk. But it’s like you can’t stay away, so you volunteer anyway. Pick one.”   
    
Kaelyn takes several moments of silence to consider—and realizes he’s right. “I see.”   
    
Nate nods and says nothing more.   
    
By mid-afternoon they cross one of the bridges spanning the river and Bunker Hill’s obelisk rises above the nearby buildings.   
    
“Oh!” Curie flutters as if caught in a breeze. “Bunker Hill! I have always wanted to visit. Do they have tours?”   
    
Kaelyn gives a quick, flinty laugh. “They have scams.” Then it occurs to her that Curie must have somehow learned of the monument, then felt the desire to travel. She isn’t sure what to make of that.   
    
Nate whistles at the scrapheap walls, complete with coils of barbed wire icing their tops, with rusting carcasses of cars and trucks dragged in front of them as an extra layer of protection. “Best defenses I’ve seen since the park. What do they have that needs this kind of protection?”   
    
“It’s a trade hub,” Kaelyn says. Maybe there are synths in the cellar today, too, but that’s none of her business anymore.   
    
Her stomach lurches when she passes through the gates, remembering the bodies. Blood splashing the white stone steps. Not one hint of the battle remains. Bodies have been buried, losses mourned, defenses repaired. Belongings from the dead have long since been looted and pawned off. Kessler probably took the arms and armor of the fallen Brotherhood and Institute personnel as recompense, and used the funds to repair the walls.   
    
Curie’s eye stalks tilt back to take in the full height of the obelisk around which the outpost sprang up. “It is so... tall.”   
    
Nate chuckles. “Race you to the top?”   
    
“Oh no, monsieur. It is not safe to run up stairs.”   
    
Rather than risk any nighttime encounters, they cut their travel short for the day. It also gives Curie an opportunity to explore. An inquisitive Miss Nanny bot raises a few eyebrows and she gets chased away from a few stalls when merchants learn she has no intentions of buying, but she remains unruffled.   
    
Deacon could be here in one of his many guises: Roge the caravan guard, with his head ruthlessly shaved every morning, or maybe Harrison the merc who lingers around the bar, collecting gossip the way a geek collects comics. Under the guise of browsing wares in the market, Kaelyn crowd watches in the corner of her eye, searching for a pair of sunglasses and a cocky smirk—the primary expression of both Roge and Harrison. But no, he’s not here.   
    
Kaelyn keeps an eye out, but doesn’t spot any other familiar agents, either. No doubt word will reach Desdemona by nightfall that she’s here, but it doesn’t matter as long as they don’t try to rope her into any more shenanigans. Amelia Stockton waves as she departs from the brahmin pens, her latest caravan returning safe and sound, and Kaelyn just _knows_ Old Man Stockton will imminently learn of her presence.   
    
But then it occurs to her that she can get word to HQ through Old Man Stockton. Also that she should, given Dez’s prediction of payback by the Institute. so she overcomes her reticence and meanders through the market to his stall. “Do you have any Geiger counters? It’s urgent.”   
    
Stockton doesn’t bat an eyelash. “In the back room. If you’ll come with me.”   
    
In the privacy of the cellar, all she says is: “Two coursers decimated Sunshine Tidings Co-op to lure me out. I thought HQ should know.”   
    
Kaelyn slinks back to the bar to join Nate for dinner, quiet and unsatisfied.   
    
Having paid their sum of caps, they stay in the communal bunkhouse for the night. Or rather, Kaelyn and Nate do. Curie, having no need of sleep, continues to explore and Valentine volunteers to keep an eye on her. After just one week of Curie’s company, it’s clear her curiosity outstrips her common sense.   
    
“I welcome your company, Monsieur Valentine,” Curie chirps. “You simply must tell me of your construction, and why you choose to wear a fedora.”   
    
Kaelyn and Nate squeeze together on a mattress against the wall, and he rolls them so his broad back shields her from the room at large. Dogmeat curls at their feet, near their bags to ward off any would-be thieves. Neither of them had the opportunity to bathe, and the general aroma in the bunkhouse is pungent, to put it mildly.   
    
One of Nate’s hands settles on her hip, tracing circles in the supple leather of her trousers. He then slides past her navel and then lower, and she pinches the back of his hand. Now’s not the time or the place, even if a part of her is curious whether they could be quiet enough to pull it off in a crowded bunkhouse. Nate drops a quick kiss to the back of her neck and settles properly this time. Between the sturdy walls and the guns in easy reach around their beds, they get a few hours rest.   
    
In the morning they continue on their way, picking their way with care between the raider nests and super mutant hives, their numbers diminished thanks to the Brotherhood’s presence here before— well. Before. But Kaelyn knows these streets, both from before and after the war, and navigates around the dangers. The only problem is her most familiar route takes them dangerously close to Old North Church, where the lantern shines in the bell tower even during the day.   
    
Kaelyn realizes she’s staring and turns away. If anything, she feels safer knowing her people monitor these suburbs.   
    
Salt-laden wind rushes down the streets, welcoming them to the waterfront. Run down factories and groaning apartment blocks squat in the shallows, paint peeling like dried skin to expose the timber walls to the rotting influence of damp sea air. Once this area was a haven for local raider gangs; now a number of Minutemen patrols keep the shipping yard surrounding the Castle clear. Radgulls perch on the street lights and fluff up their feathers against a wind that’s fresh despite the sun’s heat beating down on their backs. Their screeches carry through the air as a cluster of them fight over a tumor-riddled fish.   
    
The suburb line stops abruptly at the diner Preston once assembled their assault force in, revealing an unimpeded view of the coast that stretches to either side of the Castle. The surrounding waters are gray-blue and laden with litter. Waves pound the shore with angry fists, unfurling to drag down the sand with white-foam nails. The hill leading up to the walls is a patchwork of freshly-turned squares in preparation for future farming.   
    
Nate halts. “Fort Independence.”   
    
Gone is the hole in the wall that they once used as an entrance; now there’s a solid wall with double-doors made from timber and reinforced with mirelurk carapaces. The uneven stonework has clearly been recycled from the rubble of the old walls, reinvigorating the old with a new purpose. Atop the battlements are two sentries, who wave them through when Kaelyn shouts her affiliation.   
    
“You’ve got a front door now,” Valentine quips. “Things sure are looking up around here.”   
    
Kaelyn marvels as she steps under the arch. The courtyard is much cleaner since the last time she had been here; the remaining piles of rubble are gone, making room for a training yard, and the other walls have also been shored up. It gives her hope. That they _can_ rebuild.   
    
“—hey! Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, whelp!”   
    
Kaelyn stiffens, casting about for an escape. She fingers the stealth boy at her hip and wonders if she can make a break for it.   
    
Nate peers down at her, one tentative hand settling on her shoulder. He ventures, “Honey…?”   
    
“Ronnie,” is all she says by way of explanation.   
    
The woman herself marches up to Kaelyn, her beret askew and arms swinging at her sides. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”   
    
Straightening to her full height, Kaelyn meets Ronnie’s gaze. Her boots aren’t like the heels she used to wear to work, but they’re solid under her feet and give her an extra inch. “I hear it’s Colonel Shaw now, yes?”   
    
“Don’t get smart with me! You turned over the hat to Garvey with no warning, no witnesses, and clearly no wits. Best we get is a second-hand account from Garvey? This ain’t a game. Guess I was wrong when I thought you might make a decent general.”   
    
“You have cause and effect reversed,” she says, willing her face to stone. “I handed over the position _because_ I wasn’t doing my job, not the other way around.”   
    
Kaelyn had appointed Preston the way he had appointed her, in a quiet moment at Sanctuary. At the time—she hadn’t been at her best. Hadn’t considered the difference between one of the Commonwealth’s only Minutemen bestowing the rank on the other, but things are different now.   
    
“But you’re right that I didn’t handle the transference of power well. That’s why I’m here,” Kaelyn continues. “To clear up any confusion and support Preston. You don’t have an issue with his leadership, do you?”   
    
Ronnie snorts. “That a trick question? ’Course I don’t. He’s got the heart for this.” Her curled lip implies the _unlike some other people_.   
  
“Then we’re in agreement.”   
    
Ronnie’s sleet gray eyes narrow. “I see what you did there, pup.” But something in her stance gives an inch and she says, gruffly, “Keep that canniness, Colonel. You’re gonna need it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got recruits to train.” And she leaves as quickly as she arrived, marching back to the training yard. The air feels abruptly lighter, as if a storm has just passed by.   
    
Nate lets out a breath. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”   
    
Before Kaelyn has the chance to respond, another voice shouts, “Ho there!”   
    
The source of the voice trots down the stairs. Preston halts in front of them and offers handshakes all around. Dogmeat prances to his side for a hello, tail wagging. After introducing him to Curie, Preston says, “Good to see you all made it in one piece. You came at a good time. We’re just waiting on Colonel Norman from Kingsport Lighthouse.”   
    
“You’ve certainly been busy over here,” Valentine says.   
    
Kaelyn looks to the now-repaired wall that the mirelurk queen had lunged over. “I feel so much better now that the walls are fixed.”   
    
“It’s a good feeling, knowing the Minutemen are back on track and able to defend ourselves,” Preston agrees. “We’ve got space cordoned off for a garden for emergency food, but the bulk of our food comes from the farms we’re establishing just outside the walls, and whatever our settlements donate.”   
    
Kaelyn elbows him in the ribs. “See? You’ve done more in a few weeks than I did in months.” Before he can protest, she drops her teasing smile. “You look good, Preston. The job suits you.”   
    
Preston ducks his head, but his mouth curves up at the corners. “Thanks. It’s not easy, but good things never are. Now I’ll bet you guys want to know where you’ll be sleeping. Come on.”   
    
If Kaelyn wonders why the General himself takes the time to escort them through the halls to the residential wing, her curiosity is soon satisfied.   
    
“I’ve been thinking,” he says once they reach a quiet corridor. “What we’ve got now is good, but we need to start looking ahead. The Minutemen have always relied on a strong general to unite them, and without one— well, you know our recent history. So if anything happens to me, I want you to take up the position again. You already have experience as our leader.”   
    
Kaelyn opens her mouth to protest—hesitates. Thinks. At last, she nods. “I’ll do it if I have to. But don’t let anything happen to you, okay?”   
    
Preston smiles. “Thanks. I wanted to run it by you first in private. Half-expected you to fight me on it, actually.”   
    
He’s barely dropped them off at their quarters when there’s a commotion in the courtyard. With a hurried goodbye he turns on his heel to investigate. Nick follows him out and drags Curie along with them.   
    
Nate rests one hand on the door handle. “Shall we check out the digs?”   
    
Away from the fierce Commonwealth sun, protected by stone walls, the room is cool except for a small rectangle of heat burning through the window. There’s a bed on the far side of the room, a desk under the window, and a small wash stand in the corner.   
    
Nate spins on his heel to take in the room at large. “Always knew there were perks to being an officer.”   
    
“The general’s quarters are even larger,” Kaelyn says absently. Setting her satchel on top of the dresser, she meanders to a box that has been placed on the desk. Digging through its few contents, she finds the few belongings she’d left in her old quarters. A carbon-scored laser pistol, one of Dogmeat’s kerchiefs, a scope with a cracked lens. Nothing important. Nothing personal.   
    
Their weapons go in the conveniently supplied gun rack, although they both keep their sidearms. Dogmeat has already settled on the center of the bed and fallen asleep, snoring softly. Kaelyn investigates the washbasin; it’s full of clean water. She tosses her jacket to the ground and unlaces her boots. Glances over her shoulder to find Nate watching her, unabashed.   
    
“I don’t know about you,” she says, “but I haven’t bathed in two days. Care to join me?”   
    
“Where do I sign up?”   
    
Kaelyn hooks two fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulls him closer.

—

They’re rather intimately entangled when there’s a call for the Minutemen to assemble in the courtyard. Pinned between the wall and Nate’s hips, Kaelyn groans. His head thunks onto her shoulder, inches from her ear.   
    
“Dammit,” he pants.   
    
“Hurry up, then.” With a frustrated huff, Kaelyn drags her fingernails down his spine to trace circles at the small of his back and he arches against her.   
    
A few hurried minutes later they rinse off and comb the room for their discarded clothes. Kaelyn pirouettes once in front of Nate. “Do I look presentable?”   
    
“More than,” he says. A smirk twists his swollen lips.   
    
Dogmeat, who they’d let out of the room before things had heated up, trots to Kaelyn’s side and noses her hand. She gives him a quick scratch behind the ears and they hurry down the corridor to the nearest stairwell. Their entrance to the courtyard goes unnoticed by most except Ronnie and her hawkish gaze. She ushers Kaelyn to the radio shack where Preston waits.   
    
He nods once. “Glad you’re here. Thought it was time we made this official, in case anyone had any lingering doubts.”   
    
Kaelyn glances between Preston and the gathered crowd. “This means I have to give a speech, doesn’t it?”   
    
He pats her shoulder. “You’ve handled worse.”   
    
_Just pretend we’re in a very strange-looking court, working a strange case,_ she tells herself. Nate gives her an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up, then crouches down to keep Dogmeat from following her. Valentine is easy to pick from the crowd, thanks first to his fedora and then to his eyes that glow yellow in the encroaching afternoon shadow. Most of the courtyard is cast in shade thanks to the high walls, the sun having just crossed behind the stone.   
    
Radio Freedom’s announcer hands Preston a microphone, yet it takes a minute or so to quiet everyone down so Preston can begin. Not only are his words amplified through the courtyard’s speakers, but they also broadcast to the rest of the Commonwealth. Preston has never looked more like a general as he does now, standing tall in his worn boots, shoulders straight and proud under his duster.   
    
“Thanks for gathering, everybody! I have important news on several fronts, and we’ll go with the most important first. You’ve probably heard by now about the explosion at the CIT ruins. Yes, that was the Institute going down in flames. We no longer have to live in fear that they’ll take us or our loved ones, or have to fear our own neighbors. We stand now on the brink of something better for the Commonwealth, and I know that if we stand together, we can weather any coming storm.”   
    
Silence rings through the courtyard as the confirmation sinks in. The first whispers are barely distinguishable from the waves breaking on the shore beyond the walls. Then they grow louder, bolder as the first cheer breaks like a flare and then the crowd is swept away in a current of triumphant shouts.   
    
When the din quietens, Preston continues, “As you all know, our former general stands beside me, and we both thought it would be a good idea to explain the current situation.”   
    
Preston passes the mic to Kaelyn. She finds Nate’s face in the crowd, and he gives her a thumbs-up. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that Preston is now our general unless you’ve been out of the loop for several months. What may have come as a surprise is the suddenness of his promotion, and I’d like to take a moment to clear up any confusion. Due to personal circumstances, I couldn’t give the Minutemen the attention you all deserve. For that, I apologize. In order to best serve the Minutemen, I appointed Preston in my stead. So here we are, and we can all agree he’s up to the task.”   
    
This again elicits another roar of approval from the crowd, and Kaelyn elbows Preston when he ducks his head.   
    
“Under General Garvey, we have a opportunity to not only protect our loved ones and our livelihoods, but to build a safer Commonwealth for ourselves and the generations to come. Thank you.”   
    
Not twenty minutes later, the party has started. By twenty five minutes, the alcohol is flowing. Kaelyn passes on the homebrew beer and cider in favor of an old bottle of bourbon she splits with Nate and Preston while they find a quiet spot to watch the festivities.   
    
Preston and Curie are properly introduced; he doesn’t even bat an eyelash anymore at the kind of companions Kaelyn picks up.   
    
“Is it… normal for humans to imbibe such dangerous quantities of alcohol?” Curie asks. One of her eye stalks follows a woman weaving across the courtyard to the buffet. “What is the appeal of consuming toxic substances, I wonder?”   
    
Valentine masks his chuckle behind a hand.   
    
Nate is the only one happy to have seafood for dinner, gobbling down his mirelurk patties with an enthusiasm unmatched by anyone else, Kaelyn included. After the fight to reclaim the Castle, they’d spent _days_ butchering the mirelurks before the meat went rank. It had solved the immediate problem of food, but several months later the store rooms are still alarmingly full.   
    
“Tissue samples may provide information on the mirelurk genesis,” Curie says. One pincer stretches to Nate’s meal, only for him to pull back his plate. “From observation they look similar to the horseshoe crab, but I would need to run tests to be sure.”   
    
“Head to the kitchens,” Kaelyn says, “I’m sure they’d be happy to get rid of some mirelurk.”   
    
“You don’t even have to go that far,” Preston says. “I’ll give you my burger.”   
    
Not long after, he is drawn away to another group of Minutemen and braves this duty with a resigned smile. The moon is a platinum coin nestled in the blue velvet sky, casting a gentle silver glow over the night. Laden with seaspray, the damp air bites with cold as well as salt. That doesn’t stop the Minutemen from cranking up the radio and dancing in the chilly mud. Nate at least has the sense to investigate a card game instead. With so few opportunities—or reasons—to celebrate, the people of the Commonwealth are sure to live it up while they can.   
    
Kaelyn listens to the latest impromptu rhyme sung in honor of the Institute’s downfall, and wonders.   
    
Valentine nudges her side. “I know that face. What are you thinking?”   
    
“People are celebrating, thinking that the future is going to be brighter, but all this forward momentum isn’t going to go anywhere. Not without organization.”   
    
Valentine’s bright eyes flick to her. “And just what are you suggesting?”   
    
“I’m not suggesting anything, Nick.”   
    
“No? There’s an opportunity here that the Commonwealth hasn’t had in over sixty years.”   
    
Kaelyn shakes her head. “I think I’m done with causes.”   
    
“If you say so.”   
    
She could smack him for his perfectly bland response. If she’s queasy, she isn’t sure if it’s from the prospect of another struggle to invest in or the last mirelurk steak she ate.   
    
Still, she and Valentine people-watch as the night wears on and the antics get wilder until Nate stumbles away from a card game with an easy smile and a pocketful of caps, dragging Kaelyn away before the people he played with can plan revenge. They curl together in bed, and she stays awake long after he’s succumbed to slumber. Running her hand across his chest, she thinks that she doesn’t want a cause anymore. She just wants him. 

—

The Minutemen’s five colonels and one general sit around the table in the war room. Maps and documents spill over the grand table—made to seat at least sixteen—and onto the floor. The room is warm and salty from the windows that allow a fresh sea breeze to tease the old map of Massachusetts hanging on the wall.   
    
The last one, Colonel Faiza of Jamaica Plain, had arrived early this morning, and the Castle was roused in a flurry of activity, mostly due to the excitement over the suit of power armor her entourage found on the way to the Castle. At least Nate won’t be bored, and as one of the few people who knows his way around power armor, can teach the others a thing or two.   
    
At once, Kaelyn notices the problem: they have an even number of people, so Preston’s vote can’t tiebreak any disputes. Making a mental note to bring it up with him later, she takes the seat Preston cleared of papers for her, sitting at his right. Ronnie’s already in place at his left, scowling into her coffee.   
    
When everyone is seated and caffeinated, Preston starts. “What’s the word from your settlements?”   
    
The colonels deliver their reports—with far less formality than the term implies—which range from ‘people are glad the Institute is gone’ to ‘we’ve been raided for food recently’.   
    
The news isn’t surprising; Preston doesn’t bat an eyelash. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, people. There’s an opportunity here the Commonwealth hasn’t seen in years. With the Institute taken down—”   
    
“You can say they’re gone, but is it true?” Faiza asks. “Everyone knows the rumors about CIT and the explosion a few months back, but they’re only that—rumors.”   
    
Ronnie is already pinning Kaelyn with an expectant look, so she leans forward in her seat. “I can explain that.” Her account is concise, relaying necessary facts about the uprising she and a few like-minded associates had staged, and that they’d rigged the reactor core to explode. She also emphasizes the synths who helped them, who only wanted their own freedom.   
    
Aside from Preston, who has known since the first night, the others are wide-eyed and awed at the full story, processing the idea of a Commonwealth without the Institute. Except for Ronnie, who gives Kaelyn an approving nod. “Next time, don’t start the party without us. I owed the Institute a bullet or two.”   
    
Preston’s next item of business is to officially declare Kaelyn his successor should anything happen to him. Some of the colonels are less than impressed that an honorary colonel with no formal duties has been appointed Preston’s successor, but no one contests the decision. She makes note of the most sour faces—Norman and the fifth Colonel Bowen—for reference. Knowing who’ll give her the most grief should the worst happen allows her to prepare. There are no guarantees in the Commonwealth, after all. Kaelyn immediately establishes Ronnie as her successor so there’s a clear line of succession, and the latter accepts in her gruff manner.   
    
From there the discussion moves to the settlements who have allied with the Minutemen, and their triumphs and problems. Behind summer creeps autumn, with the promise of winter behind it. Raiders are always a threat, and without the Brotherhood to control the super mutants and ferals, they’re another familiar danger.   
    
After the meeting is adjourned, Kaelyn motions for Preston to hang back and they wait until the door swings shut behind Ronnie. She wanders to the map and scans the familiar lines arranged in a network that connects the Commonwealth. Atop the old labels, new locations and routes have been marked in charcoal and occasionally pen by cartographers of varying precision. It’s a double vision of sorts that she can recognize both: the Commonwealth that was and the Commonwealth that is.   
    
“Preston,” she says, “When we were traveling here, we came across a Minutemen squad tracking down survivors from the Institute.”   
    
“I heard about how it went down.” Preston says. “Can’t say I expected them to fight you. And for the record, I think you made the right call.”   
    
“They might know me by reputation, but there are plenty of Minutemen who have never seen me in the flesh. And they’re isolated enough they aren’t used to someone with more clout waltzing in to take over. But it isn’t the first time a local squad has done this to me, either. So it’s a problem.”   
    
“Were the Institute’s people connected to the attack on Sunshine Tidings?”   
    
“I doubt it. When we evacuated the Institute, we teleported out as many people as we could to random locations. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a straggler group.”   
    
Preston nods. “Not the first I’ve heard of Institute sightings, either. I’m still thinking about what we can do about that. I know what they’re responsible for, but it doesn’t sit right that civilians are struggling out there.”   
    
Kaelyn says nothing. Quietens the part of her buried deep in her chest that says the same thing—the piece that promised Shaun she’d help.   
    
Luckily he doesn’t seem to expect a response. “I’ll talk to our people and remind them that they should be respecting any allies who come to help. Especially colonels.”   
    
Now’s the moment. “Look, you know Nate served in the army. He could have some advice on how we can better organize ourselves.”   
    
He considers this for several moments, then nods. “Always willing to hear people out. If he has any ideas, I’ll listen.”   
    
That’s all anyone can expect, so they wander down to the kitchens for lunch and then part ways. She finds Nate on the stairs, munching on a sandwich while he tracks the power armor being walked through the courtyard. Oh, and he’s surrounded by a number of Minutemen who pepper him with questions. When he spots her, he hops off the railing he’d been using as a seat and peels away to Kaelyn’s side.   
    
She raises an eyebrow at Nate’s gaggle of admirers. “Making friends already?”   
    
He winks. “You know me, always popular at the parties. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s more because I got the motion-assist servos working. Now they can take turns walking the armor around the courtyard.”   
    
“Won’t that drain the fusion core?”   
    
His smile turns impish. “They’re walking it manually.”   
    
With enough strength, the hydraulics in the suit can be forced to move without power, but it’s effectively an exoskeleton of lead-coated stone. Wincing in sympathy, Kaelyn watches as the suit opens to spit out a red-faced woman who folds over, panting, while someone else calls that it’s his turn now. As the power armor closes around him, he turns to face the stairs.   
    
Kaelyn stops in her tracks.   
    
The power armor is not the rust-edged khaki she’s expecting. No, it’s steel-gray. Sports that damning logo emblazoned on the breastplate.   
    
“Where did they get that?”   
    
“Found it,” crows a nearby man—boy, really, his white skin soft under a layer of grime and grease. Tossing down the rag he’d used to try and fail to get grease off his hands, he wipes his hands on his trousers instead. “Move over, Brotherhood! We can have our own power armor!”   
    
She wonders if its old owner was dead or alive at the time of its acquisition. “You’re going to have to repaint it. If whatever’s left of the Brotherhood learn of this, they will confiscate it. Or worse.”   
    
Another lingering woman bares her teeth in a grimace. “Like those bastards confiscated our corn harvest? Let ’em come. They don’t got their fancy airship anymore.”   
    
Nate, who raised an eyebrow throughout this, glances at Kaelyn. She’s saved by a commotion around the power armor: its boots are stuck in the mud, and he’s called over to help. Kaelyn stays in the shade of the archway to watch. While the others attempt to push the armor out of the mini-bog, Nate simply evicts its current pilot and inserts the fusion core to walk it out of the mud.   
    
Someone else watches the excitement, but his attention is on Kaelyn and not the proceedings. He hugs a nearby wall, peering out from around the corner, and it takes several minutes for him to work up the nerve to approach her.   
    
She gives him an encouraging smile. “Afternoon.”   
    
“I just wanted to thank you, ma’am,” he says, pitching his voice low.   
    
“Rebuilding the Minutemen was more Preston’s dream than mine. I just helped.”   
    
The man clears his throat and looks down. “Not for that, ma’am. Well, not entirely. I wanted to thank you for freeing us from the Institute.”   
    
Ah.   
    
Kaelyn glances around to check no one is in eavesdropping distance and briefly touches his shoulder. “It was the right thing to do. I hope you have a better life up here.”   
    
“No question.” With a trembling smile, he hefts his laser musket. “Commonwealth Minutemen, making people’s lives better one settlement at a time. I knew it would be safe here for us because you were their leader. No coursers, no mind wipes.” He draws in a deep breath. “No fear.”   
    
“You got a name?”   
    
He cracks a smile, his teeth flashing white in the cool shade of the courtyard. “It’s funny hearing people ask that. And then call me by my name, not my designation. It’s Harry, ma’am.”   
    
“Pleasure to meet you, Harry. And no need to call me ma’am. That makes me feel old.”   
    
He smiles again, this one more at ease. “Thank you again. I’ll, uh, leave you to it.”   
    
Resettling in her position against the wall, Kaelyn wonders just how many other synths are out there.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for helping with this chapter!
> 
> **CW for animal injury in this chapter.** Also the end of the chapter is darker than I usually go for, so you’ve been warned.

Of Staff Sergeant Nathaniel Prescott, soldier, Kaelyn knows only pieces. His crisp fatigues, the click of his boots, his straight back when he left on deployment. The sound of his bag dropping in the entry when he returned. The nightmares that left him shaking in the night. The time he came home for Christmas in ’74 and couldn’t stand the snow.

But now—now he stands before her, armed and alert, and his stance is utterly alien. Gone is her slouching husband and in his stead is a cool-eyed professional, despite there being no nearby threats to prompt this change in demeanor. Among the Minutemen, he stands out like a swan among geese.

Kaelyn had wandered into the courtyard to find Ronnie already working with the latest batch of recruits, showing them how to fire their laser muskets. And beside Ronnie, correcting the posture of one trainee was Nate. After weapons training, he and Ronnie both barked at the recruits while they did push ups under the baking sun. The recruits had groaned in relief when Nate had called for a break, and they staggered away to the shade.

Suddenly, Kaelyn feels grateful she joined when there was only one other Minuteman in the ’Wealth. “So the Minutemen have a new drill sergeant?”

Nate glances up at her and his eyes are—if not happy, then lighter than she’s seen them since October 23. “Someone has to kick these kids’ butts into shape. I’m gonna have to take one for the team.” He leans on the wall beside her, folding his arms across his broad chest. Something of the soldier’s influence recedes and he’s her slouching, dorky husband again. “I now know why my old drill sergeant was such a hardass. The power’s already going to my head.”

“How are they?”

“Something of a mixed bag. Spirited, yes. Disciplined, no. They’re obeying Ronnie out of fear, and they’re obeying me because, what, I can bark an order? I’m just a lowly Minuteman like them. In all honesty I’m not clear what the chain of command is around here.”

It’s an excellent opportunity to ask, “Nate?”

“Mm?”

“I wanted to ask you for some advice. If you had the power, what would you change about the Minutemen?”

Nate drums his fingers on his knee while he considers. “A loose system works when you’ve got just a few guys working on their own, but not for an organization of this size. You need a visible chain of command that everyone knows to follow. No exceptions. You obey Preston, the rank-and-file obey the colonels, and so on. Another piece of advice: in front of other Minutemen, call Preston ‘General’. Everyone knows you’re close, but if you want people to respect the chain of command, you have to respect it too.”

Kaelyn nods. “Thanks.”

“So you’re ready to take this on? It’ll be a lot of hard work.”

Hadn’t Valentine teased her about much the same thing? Needing a cause to fight?

It seems too late when she’s already tied up in the Minutemen again, but that now-familiar hesitation strikes again. The things she’d done to avenge Nate and find Shaun…

Nate notices. “Honey…”

“I just— after what happened last time I got involved in something like this, I’m afraid of jumping in again. But sitting back and doing nothing doesn’t feel right, either.”

Wrapping his arms around her waist, Nate pulls her against his side. His mouth finds her ear. “You are one of the most driven women I’ve ever met. If you really want to retire from everything and be a hermit in Sanctuary Hills, I’m all right with that. But I’d be damn surprised.”

She rests her hands on top of his. “What about you? Could you be a hermit for the rest of your life? You’ve already made a difference around here. Ronnie actually likes you and I’m scared.”

His chuckle expels a warm huff of air across her cheek. “If this can put my years of service to use, then it’s worth it.”

“I’m glad. You know,” she eyes him sidelong with a sly smile, “with this chain of command, that means you have to obey my orders.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, then.” He grins at her indignant noise and kisses the side of her neck.

They talk more that night, and in the nights that follow, then Kaelyn relays his suggestions to the war room. The official meetings are slow; Norman seems to be protesting her ideas on principle, seeing her suggestions as a threat to his settlement’s independence.

“The Minutemen are an alliance of _self-reliant_ settlements,” he stresses. “We aren’t the Brotherhood of Steel, and we don’t want to be.”

“We’re all in this together,” Preston says. “Anyone who’s willing to defend themselves and their neighbors is welcome in the Minutemen.”

Kaelyn holds her ground. “And when a colonel—or a general—gives an order they don’t agree with? What do they do then? I’ve had two squad leaders insult me the moment I gave an order they didn’t like. Surely nobody’s forgotten Quincy already.” Under the table she squeezes Preston’s knee in mute apology for bringing it up.

Preston’s face tightens, mostly around the eyes, but he soldiers through it. “The disaster at Quincy is never going to happen again.”

“If we take steps to prevent it now,” Kaelyn presses, but gently.

“What are you suggesting?” Bowen asks, his voice a touch sharp. “The Minutemen rely on volunteers. Always have. How can we impose outside rules on them when they just want to protect their homes?”

Oh, how times have changed. Kaelyn resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“I’m saying a universal set of policies to govern our conduct and the conduct of our allied settlements could be helpful.”

Faiza too says, “I think you overestimate the danger. Anyone would follow our General Garvey to hell and back.”

Ronnie snorts at that one. “Too young to remember General Becker. People said that about him, too, and when he died the Minutemen fragmented.”

The discussion circles and stalls like one of the Brotherhood’s vertibirds, then moves to safer topics: the continuing threats to the Commonwealth’s settlements, and what the Minutemen can do about them. County Crossing, Bowen’s home settlement, has had a spate of recent raider attacks. Despite his best efforts, he hasn’t found their lair.

“General,” he says, “we need more people. We have to find these raider gangs and give ’em justice. Take back what they stole.”

“If they were good at managing their food stores, they wouldn’t have raided three times in two months,” Faiza retorts. “Don’t count on recovering anything.”

Preston says, “So what I’m hearing is we need more crops and more people to guard them. It’s been a hard year for everybody. If people don’t have enough food now, winter will be bad.”

Even without open war in the Commonwealth, raiders have capitalized on the unrest over the last year caused in part by the Brotherhood’s campaign, not to mention the Institute’s surface experiments—

That jogs Kaelyn’s memory. She leans forward in her seat. “If we want a hope of stabilizing the Commonwealth, we need agriculture to support our population. Establishing further relations with Greygarden is one option. They may be robots, but there has to be something they need that we can trade.”

“The moment we expand a farm, it paints a target for raiders,” Faiza point out.

“So we ask for volunteers for a permanent garrison,” Preston says. “We can’t let fear of raiders stop us from trying. But I understand that most people want to live safely, so volunteers only.”

“Then I’ll put out the call, General,” Ronnie says.

Kaelyn rests her palms on her thighs under the table and pretends to be casual, thoughtful, as if it were nothing more than idle speculation. “There’s a farm south of here that has some incredible crops. I’m talking twice the size and yield of anything I’ve seen in the ’Wealth. We could establish trade relations with them. Or better yet, buy seeds from them to grow our own.”

There’s a certain irony to using the Institute’s experiment to _actually_ better humanity, and she’s determined to exploit it for all it’s worth.

Preston nods. “All we can ever do is try. If people don’t have to farm all day, every day, they’ll have time to build without risking starvation. If the Minutemen can help the Commonwealth this way, we can make a difference. Let’s do this, people.”

—

Nate catches up with Kaelyn for lunch in the mess hall. He says, “Ronnie asked me to help in the yard again. Says she wants someone to demonstrate moves on who won’t bruise easily, so I told her I don’t fit the bill.” He flashes a quick smile that, like a cinder, extinguishes as quickly as it sparks. “But in all seriousness, I’m… glad to have something to do.”

Her gaze softens. “I understand.”

Unlike the army, talent and skill are snapped up and put to use regardless of how little time someone has been a part of the Minutemen. Ronnie’s good word, sealed with Preston’s approval, has granted Nate a position as a trainer at the Castle. Kaelyn keeps her distance through the whole thing, both out of respect for his ability to accomplish things on his own and so no one can make accusations of nepotism.

Over the next few days Preston hand picks a squad of diplomatically-minded Minutemen and asks Kaelyn to lead them. “You’ve already had contact with Warwick, and this was your idea besides,” he says. “Offer them a place in the Minutemen, but don’t burn any bridges if they say no. Though I doubt I need to tell you that.”

It isn’t an order, but refusing to go would raise more questions than Kaelyn would like. “I’ll get it done.”

Nate’s new occupation is going to make it easier. She hopes. That night in the privacy of their quarters, she says, “South of here, there’s a farm that has some incredible crops. Everyone—even the farm hands—thinks it’s because they made a farm out of a sewerage plant, but it’s really because the Institute genetically engineered crops that grow better in irradiated conditions. A group of Minutemen are going there to request some seeds. If we can spread those crops across the Commonwealth, set up some large-scale agriculture, then we secure our food supply. Since it was my idea, the squad asked me to join them.”

“If you went, how long would you be gone for?”

“Just a few days. Warwick Homestead isn’t that far.”

Nate nods. “No problem. When do we leave?”

Dammit. “You just said you’re committed to training the new guys.”

“I did, but that doesn’t mean plans can’t change. You’re more important to me.”

Kaelyn cups his cheek, feeling his stubble prick her palm. “I know, and I thank you. But you’re doing good work here, and we can survive a few days out of each other’s company, right?”

He draws her against his chest and rests his chin on top of her head. “If this is what you felt like every time I was deployed, I suddenly understand why you were so worried.”

She rests her chin on his shoulder. “And you understand why I’m not.”

“That’ll teach me,” he mutters.

Nate’s concession is a reluctant one, but it’s a concession nonetheless. Before heading back to the war room, Kaelyn flags down Valentine and explains the situation.

He has the courtesy to not rub her inability to stay away in her face. He just asks, “So you’re getting back into the swing of things, are you?”

She closes her eyes. Draws on her resolve. “If I’m to have a legacy in the Commonwealth, it will not be that I destroyed the Brotherhood of Steel and the Institute within days of each other.”

“When are we heading out?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. Nate’s staying behind, and I need a favor from you.”

Valentine looks her up and down. “Honeymoon’s over, huh?”

“I want someone around who can stop him if he tries anything stupid.”

“On a scale of zero to guaranteed, how likely is he to cause trouble?”

“If anyone’s in danger? Highly likely. Just… keep Nate safe. Please.”

“Will do.” Valentine’s expression turns thoughtful. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get a sit-down with your better half. Exchange all those embarrassing tales about you. I’ll bet he’s got a decent number of ’em stored for safekeeping.”

“Remind me who was the one trapped in a vault for two weeks?”

“You’ll have to refresh the old memory circuits.” Valentine taps his temple with a smile that soon fades, then he claps her shoulder. “Stay safe out there.”

She reaches up to curl a hand around his elbow. “Will do.”

Her history at Warwick Homestead isn’t something she wants Nate to know. Or Valentine, for that matter.

At dawn a group of Minutemen, Kaelyn included, set out through the waterfront. How radstags made their way through the city to that one park on the esplanade, no one will ever know. By midmorning they get a call over the radio that ferals have been sighted around a nearby settlement, and Kaelyn quietly thanks the universe for this diversion. She insists the others go ahead to take care of the problem, pointing out that asking for some seeds does not require a full entourage and might in fact intimidate an independent settlement. The others agree to kill two birds with one stone, and they part ways.

A piece of her feels leaded, but another piece is growing lighter with every step. Dogmeat bounds ahead, the cracked sidewalk under his paws giving way to dirt and then to grass. After days spent in a crowded fort, the sudden return to her own company is—jarring. Reminds her of another time and another road, with only Dogmeat to alleviate the loneliness.

South of Quincy, she breaks from the road to traverse the mudflats, following the coastline that winds like a scarf in a gentle breeze. The sky is one continuous sheet of gray, deepening to a bruised lavender along the horizon by the time Kaelyn reaches Warwick Homestead.

The first sign she’s close is the smell. Despite being two hundred years since the sewerage plant’s last use, not even the salty bite of the coastal winds can alleviate the stench. The second sign is the green of crops peeking out above the screen of high plywood walls.

Kaelyn stands at the ajar gates and knocks. An unfamiliar farmhand takes one look at her laser musket and lets her straight in. He points her in June’s direction and Dogmeat trots between plots of verdant plants with such thick, healthy foliage it’s like looking at a pre-war painting. In the corner of the yard there’s a rectangle of turned earth. Kaelyn refuses to look at it once she realizes what it is.

Dez and Glory, probably even Deacon, would have her head if they knew. But there’s a world of difference between a synth seeking self-determination and an infiltrator with orders to destroy all evidence when the experiment is finished. Especially when ‘evidence’ includes the original’s family.

June stands by the stairs to the treatment plant, watching the goings-on without really seeing them. Kaelyn clears her throat and she jumps. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. You’re… that woman who talked down Bill. Was there something you needed?” She makes a brave attempt at a smile.

“I’m here on behalf of the Minutemen. We’re expanding our farmland, and I remembered the remarkable crops you’ve cultivated here. So I’m here to ask if one, you might be interested in allying with the Minutemen and two, if I can buy some seeds from you.”

The both turn to the field with its rows of mutfruit bushes—now better classified as mutfruit shrubs, standing taller than the average human—their branches heavily laden with fruit. Beside them is the tato plot, with supports wreathed in a thick network of vines. Their leaves are green, their trunks straight and healthy, and their fruit some of the largest Kaelyn has seen in the post-war world. And the gourd patch is still filled with dog-sized fruit. Farm hands move between the plants, harvesting ripe fruit.

“It was Roger’s vision,” she murmurs. Her gaze turns distant, misty. “Come inside and we’ll talk more.”

Despite the renovations, the settlement is at the end of the day still a sewerage treatment plant. The floors are cold concrete and the ceiling too high to retain heat. June leads her to an office and fusses about making drinks, a tangy homegrown tincture made from dried mutfruit that isn’t half bad. They debate the benefits of formally allying with the Minutemen and June gives her a firm maybe. Kaelyn doesn’t mind the evasion; the Minutemen aren’t going anywhere, they aren’t wanting for allies, and respecting Warwick’s right to decide at their own pace paints the Minutemen in a better light than if she were more forceful.

June leans forward in her seat. “We’ve had people ask for seeds before, but I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told them: it’s the soil.”

_Do you really believe that?_ Kaelyn has to wonder. “Even so, it’s worth trying. It could do a world of good for the rest of the Commonwealth.”

“Some might say we have an advantage with our crops.”

“You’re also a unique target if you’re the only farm with these crops. Besides, are you in this to turn a profit at the cost of families’ well-being, or to support them?”

“You haven’t asked where Roger is,” June notes. Almost accuses.

Kaelyn’s blood runs cold. “I, uh, saw the grave on my way in. When I couldn’t see him anywhere, I figured…”

June sets her mug down with a precise little clink. The tea trembles inside. “It was awful. I thought it was all over when you talked down Bill, but a few weeks later he— someone— I didn’t see who shot him. No one did. Someone still thought he was a synth.”

Turns out that kid from The Third Rail was worth every cap. And it turns out that now Kaelyn has won the universe’s lottery and gotten her own husband back, witnessing June’s grief is all the more painful.

Dammit.

“I’m so sorry.” It feels like a cop-out when she’s responsible for this, but she can’t not say it.

”You know what the worst part is? He _was_ a synth after all!” she chokes. “So I don’t know whether to be angry that the Institute killed Roger, or angry that a machine made a better husband and father, or angry that some sonofabitch shot him.”

Kaelyn covers June’s hand with her own. “It’s okay to be conflicted. This is an awful situation to be in, and you’re allowed to be angry.”

She slides her hand out from underneath Kaelyn’s and dabs at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be dumping this on you.”

“It’s all right. I’ll be gone in a day or two and we can pretend this never happened, if it makes you feel better.”

Her chair scrapes on the floor. “I’ll give you those seeds you were after. I don’t know if it’ll do any good but if you want to try…”

They haggle over a sum of caps; Kaelyn makes only the most perfunctory of attempts to lower the price. Grieving or not, June can still drive a hard bargain. A few extra caps are poor reparation for orchestrating the assassination of the infiltrator that replaced her husband, but it’s better than nothing.

The afternoon dies quietly, sinking into the black mattress of the horizon and pulling indigo sheets over its head with a tired sigh. Another sum of caps buys permission for Kaelyn to sleep in the bunkhouse with the other transient workers. One of the farmhands protests Dogmeat’s presence, but his puppy dog eyes worm into the others’ hearts and their affection drowns out any objections.

In the morning, Kaelyn and Dogmeat leave Warwick Homestead laden with a satchel full of seeds. Containers of tiny tato seeds, jars of hard black mutfruit seeds, tins of gourd husks, and written instructions on how best to cultivate them. Kaelyn reads over the document and files the information away just in case, but farming is not her forte.

It’s another cloudy day, and the ocean winds, fresh and fierce, offer a further chill. A fog rolled in during the night and doesn’t quite concede to the day, protected by its sky-bound cousins. At the first opportunity she drifts inland to the sandbanks sculpted by the elements, fleeing the rising tide that swallows the mudflats. Loose slopes of sand shift beneath her, hissing with the voice of a thousand snakes, inconstant and so very treacherous before softening to sucking mud.

The grass has netted itself over the sandy hills in thick thatches, stretching high enough to brush Kaelyn’s thighs. An impressive amount of sand has been sculpted into a hill, large enough to swallow a beach shack, and the sea-facing side has collapsed under eroding forces. Kaelyn’s legs burn as she works her way up, using the grassroots as footholds. A rustling in the grass captures Dogmeat’s attention and he bounds ahead to investigate.

The silence shatters like glass.

A gun barks and Dogmeat yelps. Someone lunges out of the grass, swearing, aiming his pistol at Dogmeat.

Whipping out Deliverer, Kaelyn empties her magazine into the raider and he topples. Except there’s movement in the corner of her eye: at the top of the hill, a half-dozen raiders spring up from the grass.

No cover and a height disadvantage. This is bad.

Kaelyn drops to one knee in the grass, and the raiders charge. She wastes precious second fumbling for a fresh magazine. Fires wildly, and they scatter. Two of them launch a net, its ropes splayed in the air like a spider’s web. Kaelyn dives to the side but it tangles around her calves. She drops heavily.

Dogmeat plants himself in front of her and snarls at the approaching enemies, ears pinned back, saliva dripping from his maw. He lunges, latching onto a man’s wrist, and the snap of bone is punctuated by a scream.

“Shit! Shoot it! Shoot it!”

“Dogmeat!”

But raiders aren’t known for their camaraderie and let him struggle. He lands a punch to Dogmeat’s ribs, dislodging him. A kick from the raider sends Dogmeat skidding across the sand, claws raking for purchase, and over the edge of the dropoff.

“Dogmeat!” she screams, straining for a bark, a whine, _anything_.

A boot connects with her ribs and she topples forward. The raiders circle her, like a pack of animals, snarling and jeering.

The muzzle of a gun touches her hair, and she waits.

And waits.

The final shot doesn’t come. Her nerves coil tighter with every moment the trigger is not pulled.

“Got her!”

Her blood runs cold.

Her weapons are stripped away, as is her shoulder guard. Sounds of a tussle behind her— _lay off, I got her first!_ and _mine now!_ —and Kaelyn tries to crawl away only for a boot to slam down on her wrist.

“I don’t think so, sweetie,” the raider coos, her eyes alight with malice. “You’re not going anywhere.”

As it turns out, that isn’t quite true. That raider straddles Kaelyn’s hips as she binds her wrists behind her back and shoves a bag over her head. The fabric is thick and scratchy and the humidity immediately climbs in the sudden darkness. Tiny dots of gray light shine through gaps in the weave, succeeding only in confusing her eyes. Thus bound, she’s hauled to her feet, kicked again when she takes too long, and the bag saves her from eating a face full of sand.

“Move it!”

Knuckles jab into Kaelyn’s kidney, and she takes a step forward to alleviate the pressure. Only it doesn’t relent; more hands join in to push and shove and pinch. Without sight, her every step is uncertain. More than once she stumbles, sticking her foot in a pothole or on a rock. The raiders just jeer and shove her more.

The bag reflects her breath, hot and humid, back in her face.

_Why are they taking me alive?_

Kaelyn listens for Dogmeat, but hears nothing.

She doesn’t know how long they walk for. Hours, possibly, and then her knee is kicked out and she lands in the dirt. The temperature drops, then the sound of a fire crackles like snapping bones. Without sight, she can only piece together muffled sounds to make sense of the world: approaching footsteps, someone roughly grabbing her wrists, the thunk of a hammer close by. She tugs on her restraints and determines a spike has been driven into the ground to keep her in place.

Someone kicks her in the gut. “Move and say bye-bye to your legs.”

“Watch it,” someone else hisses. “One piece or no payment.”

The night is cold and loud and hard. Kaelyn is too afraid to squirm lest she catch the attention of her captors, but the rocky ground grows unbearable. As carefully as she can, she probes at her bindings. They’re tight enough to cut into her wrists even before she starts twisting this way and that, trying to ease them off. But her damn hand bones are too big and she only rubs her wrists raw in the attempt.

Dawn is heralded by chirruping from some Wasteland creature and pinpricks of gray light weaseling into her hood. Somebody clatters around the fire making breakfast, and Kaelyn’s stomach twists at the smell of greasy meat.

Not long after that, Kaelyn is dragged to her feet and forced to move again. Her back and shoulders scream from bad sleeping conditions. The terrain changes from rough and uneven to smooth and flat. Concrete. Cheers go up nearby and someone shouts to _get the boss!_

Funny how sackcloth can distort sound. Kaelyn thinks they might be inside. The air is warm and smoky, and there’s concrete under her feet.

As abruptly as she’s shoved to move, she’s yanked to a halt.

The bag is torn off her head and she hisses as a chunk of hair is torn out with it. Blinking away tears, she realizes she’s face-to-face with what has to be the boss. His bloodshot eyes glare out from under heavy brows, slashes with twin scars. Under all the blood and grime his skin might be white.

“Whaddaya think, boss?” The man who so eagerly crowed his victory earlier is now wary, almost humble, as he slinks around Kaelyn to stand near the ringleader—but out of arm’s reach. “Brown woman with a pip-boy and sniper rifle. Matches the description, doncha think?”

_Description?_

Kaelyn bites back any sound, trying not to give them the satisfaction. Tries to school her expression, but her mouth feels too wide and tight, like a wire drawn across open flames.

The raider boss snaps an arm out to snare her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw as he forces her face up. At the motion, a pungent waft of sweat and old blood assaults her nose. This close, she can count every pore and pimple marring his nose and cheeks. In his eyes she sees her own reflection: small and afraid.

He smiles, then, and she knows she’s lost.

“That’s the one. Or close enough to.” He tightens his grip before stepping away, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Put her in the pen.”

She’s swept away by a mob of cheering raiders, up the stairs to the catwalk, to the nearby offices that have been renovated to become prisons. On the rattling walkway, the tidal wave of bodies shoving and shouting, bootsteps thudding, make the world shudder dangerously. Three raiders yank her to a halt. At least one paws at her.

Kaelyn looks through the bars of the cell. A ghostly face stares back, the whites of his eyes bright in the dark. He’s a settler, based on his simple attire.

The raider working at the lock purrs, “Only got room for one prisoner.”

That earns him a chorus of cheers.

The prisoner’s eyes bug when he understands. “No! No, please! Wait!”

Kaelyn can only watch as they drag him out, realization like a blade of ice between her ribs. He kicks and screams and swears, but it only amuses their captors. There’s no escape.

A final shove to her back and she pitches forward into the cell. Despite the ruckus, the click of the lock is so very loud.

Kaelyn can only curl in the corner with her hands over her ears and try not to listen until the screams die.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this one’s a bit late. I didn’t have access to my computer until now. Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for helping with this chapter!
> 
> All the usual warnings about raiders being depraved, at about the level you’d see in-game.

Every sound scrapes against Kaelyn’s nerves. The factory groans in the night, its walls shifting with the changing temperatures, as if it’s sick from its malignant dwellers. Footsteps echo around the building, easily confused with the rattle of wind that breaches the walls. She flinches at both. Every once in a while, there’s a distant screech that could be metal or human. Shouts. Arguments. Laughter.  
  
For the first however many hours, all she’s capable of is remaining curled in a ball, face pressed into her knees. Her thoughts scatter like grains of rice spilling across the floor. I’ve been kidnapped. _They kidnapped me. What’s happening?_  
  
The temperature drops, then it plummets, and she shakes from shock and cold. Sleep remains distant; instead she slips into a fugue of exhaustion and fear.  
  
Her captors are unusually alert for a raider gang. At least one guard is always outside her cage, lounging at the table with a deck of cards, or pacing the room with what look like withdrawal-induced jitters. Those ones Kaelyn avoids as much as possible, curling in the far corner of her cell out of immediate view, refusing to make eye contact. She probes the bruise near her kidney; while tender, it doesn’t feel like she ruptured anything internally. Her wrists have been rubbed raw by the too-tight handcuffs and hurt to touch.  
  
If she had her pip-boy, she could determine how long the raider’s shifts are. There are no windows nearby, and the air is consistently humid; neither betray the passage of time. The only thing she has to measure is how long it takes for the lanterns to burn down and be refilled with oil. Except sometimes the guards are too lazy to refill it immediately, leaving her in darkness for what could be minutes or hours.  
  
Something moves outside her cell, but she’s too far gone to notice it until someone throws a chair at her cell and she cringes away. They laugh at the smell of her fear.  
  
The first pangs of hunger are soft and easily missed, but it proves to be the most accurate gauge of passing time as Kaelyn’s gut clenches and curls on itself. While her nose acclimatizes to the worst of the smells, and she no longer feels liable to gag with every breath, the needs of her body feel distant. She has to relieve herself in a corner of the cell as far away from her normal perch as possible and carefully timed so her guards don’t get a show. They still notice the smell and jeer; she puts her head down and ignores it as best she can.  
  
For that, one of them wants to charge into her cell and make her regret thinking she’s better than them—although in less kind terms. He’s only held back by another that warns of the consequences if she’s harmed.  
  
She can’t even scratch the number of days into the wall like the rugged American heroes do in all the propaganda war films.  
  
One raider parades back and forth in front of Kaelyn’s cage with her jacket, telling the nearby raiders of his plans to tear off the sleeves. She doesn’t even lift her head. That battered jacket has been through hell with her, its weight as familiar as Deliverer on her hip, but it’s just a jacket. That damn raider can keep it if she gets out of here alive.  
  
“Fabric ain’t as fun as people. Don’t seem right leavin’ her in one piece,” one grumbles.  
  
Kaelyn freezes. Remembers the screams.  
  
The other raider doesn’t look up from the knife he’s balancing on one finger. “That’s the deal. You touch her, Gavin’ll flay those lost caps outta your hide. ’Sides, there are more bleeders out there for the taking. You wanna up your count, you better join in on the next sortie.”  
  
Eventually they tire of a game that’s no fun without a reaction from their victim and wander away.  
  
Kaelyn’s eyelids are scratchy and her tailbone throbs and her back is a mass of pain. Her throat is parched and her cracked lips sting with a hint of salt, reminding her that yes, she really was free not long ago. Over and over, she sees Dogmeat skid through the sand and over the edge. Hears his pained cry, the surprised whuff as he falls. The whites of his eyes, claws digging into sand. Imagination supplies the crunch of his body hitting the ground.  
  
_Please be okay._  
  
To distract herself, Kaelyn tallies the days until expected rescue. One day for the squad to search for her, possibly deciding to check that she hadn’t returned to the Castle on her own. Nate won’t wait for a few days to see if she shows up; he’ll gather a search party right away. Another day for Nate and Valentine to scour her path to the farm. If the sand isn’t wiped smooth by wind and rain, they might find signs of the fight. If they can find Dogmeat—  
  
When—not if, _when_ —they find Dogmeat, he can track her scent straight to the raiders’ hidey hole.  
  
Three days. At a minimum. Possibly four, or five, or even a week.  
  
How long until her buyers come to collect their prize? Surely not a week.  
  
Rescue has to be coming, but it might not come fast enough.

—

Upon finding an emergency bobby pin in her bra, it pierces a hole in the haze that surrounds Kaelyn. No, she can’t pick the lock on her cell with her guard present, but as her fist closes around it, she has another idea. She shouldn’t waste a perfectly good bobby pin, but the idea takes root in her heart. If she can scratch out a message for her family, a clue…

—

Her guards are inattentive enough that she can hide the tiny motions of carving words onto the wall behind her back. Muffle the sounds with her body. It soothes the ball of panic nestled in the back of her mind that’s a pervasive undercurrent in every thought. Each letter is a monument of determination and pain, scratched blindly into rusted iron. Her fingers ache from clutching the bobby pin; her wrist throbs from repetitive movements. She doesn’t dare look to see how neat her work is; prays it’s legible.  
  
_kp bought by unknown party wanted alive_  
  
_k loves n_  
  
When she isn’t carving, she’s listening. At first she thinks they’re going to ransom her back to the Minutemen, but it doesn’t fit. Raiders aren’t known for returning ransom victims in one piece. No, they’ve been hired to kidnap her.  
  
If only someone would mention who.  
  
In her career as a lawyer, Kaelyn is no stranger to threats. State prosecutors rattled their sabers, clients she failed to keep out of prison threatened vengeance, and on one notable occasion a client agreed to her proposed plea bargain only to accuse her of selling him out once the paperwork had been signed. Even if Nate had worried, especially when he’d been on tour, she hadn’t lost any sleep knowing that someone sitting in a jail cell wanted her intimidated or even dead.  
  
This is different. Someone in the Commonwealth paid a sum of caps to have her kidnapped. Taken alive so they can have the satisfaction of killing her themselves.  
  
The confined space of her cell reminds Kaelyn, somehow, of the cryo pod in Vault 111. If not for the open bars that let in air and light, she’d have already gone mad, convinced she can hear the hiss of a gas feed.  
  
Maybe she’s starting to already. How much longer until they pawn her off to their client?  
  
Kaelyn’s captors give her food and a little water in a filthy carton. She’s thirsty enough to drink it and shudders at the foul irradiated-swamp taste, even as it wets her sticky mouth. She picks at what could be cold Instamash with unknown additives, her stomach both tight with hunger and squeezing with nausea at the thought of eating.  
  
Besides her pet project, there isn’t much to do except wait for an opportunity to put her bobby pin to better use. No one ever mentioned the utter boredom that accompanies the utter terror of being held captive.  
  
Something clatters nearby and Kaelyn pre-emptively curls into a ball in her corner. It’s only the newest guard come to relieve her fellow, and she doesn’t even jeer or spit in Kaelyn’s direction as is customary. Lamplight gleams off her bald head, and Kaelyn recognizes her as the woman who bound her wrists during her kidnapping.  
  
“Any idea when the pick up’s comin’?” the other raider, whom Kaelyn had unfondly nicknamed Blackbeard, asks. “Gettin’ tired of all this waiting. Shouldn’t they be here by now? If we’ve gone to all this effort of keepin’ her alive—and unharmed—and they don’t get their asses down here, they’re gonna regret it.”  
  
“Take it up with the boss,” the replacement says. She gives his chair a kick. “Now clear off.” After he scampers away, the woman—henceforth to be referred to as Spiked Boots—rests one foot on a nearby chair and turns something over in her hands. Lamplight reflects off the silver, and Kaelyn realizes it’s a locket. The woman’s eyes are blank, dark, empty.  
  
Kaelyn knows that look. Despite her better judgment—but because of her better nature—she approaches the cell door and leans against the bars. “Yours too, huh?”  
  
The raider startles, squeezing her pistol so tightly Kaelyn’s worried she might fire a round by mistake. “What?”  
  
Kaelyn tilts her chin at the locket. “Loved one, right?”  
  
“You should— you should shut up right now or I’m going to come in there and make you regret it.”  
  
Empty threat. Still, Kaelyn backs off, gives her space.  
  
An unknown amount of time later, the raider halts her solitaire game. “‘Yours too.’ So what happened to yours?”  
  
Leaning against the bars, Kaelyn says, “My husband was shot and my son was kidnapped.” No need to mention her husband survived. Minor detail to this story.  
  
The raider pauses. “Did… did you find him? Your kid?”  
  
She presses her forehead against the bars. “By the time I got there, it was too late.”  
  
This time, the raider’s voice is firmer. More vicious. “Did you make them pay? The ones who did it?”  
  
“I blew their base straight to hell.”  
  
“Good.” The raider’s eyes are as wide as Kaelyn’s own when she realizes what she just said.  
  
Their eyes meet. Spiked Boots looks away and shuffles in her seat, then returns to her game, throwing down her next card with more force than necessary.  
  
They don’t speak again.

—

An unexpected opportunity drops into Kaelyn’s lap the next day. Her guard’s replacement doesn’t show up, so he paces back and forth, swears, mutters it isn’t his job to babysit past his shift—and leaves. After stalking up to her cage to bash his fists against the bars.  
  
Kaelyn plays the suitably intimidated prisoner until the door swings shut behind him. Gives it ten seconds just to be sure. Then she slips one hand under her shirt to grab the bobby pin hidden in her bra. With a furtive glance toward the door, she’s on the lock in a flash. She has to work by feel, coaxing the tumblers one by one with the same patience her mother used to praise. If only she could see her daughter now.  
  
The sound is nothing more than a scrape on the concrete. Every muscle in Kaelyn’s body locks up.  
  
Spiked Boots stands in the doorway.  
  
In an adrenaline-heightened moment of terror, time congeals like syrup. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Kaelyn retracts her hands back into her cell. Palms her bent bobby pin and waits for a shout, a punch, a gunshot.  
  
The raider steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. “You don’t want to do that.”  
  
“Don’t I? You people hurt my dog, kidnapped me, and now you’re going to sell me to the highest bidder. So please, enlighten me as to why it’s in my best interests to stay here.”  
  
Goading a raider may not be stupidest thing she’s ever done, but goading a raider while locked inside a cage and at her mercy makes the list. But the high of pent-up frustration feels deceptively good. Dangerously good.  
  
“Try that again and I’ll gut you myself, Gavin be damned.”  
  
Kaelyn subsides but her resentment does not. This damn woman even showed a measure of sympathy—but no. She’s raider. That’s all there is to it. This is what Kaelyn gets for thinking a raider could have one iota of sympathy for another living creature. If— _when_ she escapes, she can’t afford sentimentality to blind her. She has to be prepared to kill Spiked Boots, too.  
  
Despite the threat, Spiked Boots grows more restless with every minute. She sits down and sets up a game of solitaire, then tosses her hand of cards down and springs to her feet. She paces the room, the thunk of her heavy boots echoing thanks to the room’s acoustics. Whenever her gaze flicks in Kaelyn’s direction, her shoulders stiffen and she pointedly looks away.  
  
At one point, Spiked Boots pinches the bridge of her nose. “One more and then I’m out. Shank Marlow on my way out.”  
  
It isn’t the first time Kaelyn has heard or even seen raiders split from their gang, either from cowardice or their conscience finally getting the better of them. Maybe the opportunity she’s been waiting for could yet manifest in another form.  
  
Kaelyn tilts her head, to one side. “I’m not the only one who needs to escape.”  
  
“Shut up,” she snarls, more out of habit than anything else.  
  
Best not push her. Kaelyn retreats to the far side of her cell and slides down the wall. Brushes her fingers over the letters she scratched into rust.  
  
Spiked Boots sits down with her back to the cell and ignores her for the rest of her shift.

—

Kaelyn is debating the merits of banging her head against the wall out of sheer boredom when someone bursts into the room. At once her nerves tighten, demanding she curl up to protect herself. Sound distorts against the tempo of her heart which beats like the wings of a startled bird. Spiked Boots stalks across the room, her face grim and determined.  
  
She jerks a thumb at the raider currently on prisoner-sitting duty. “I’m here to replace you.”  
  
“Didn’t think it was your turn—”  
  
“You want to get outta here or not? I’m more than happy to go back to Randi’s card game. I almost won your revolver from her, you know. Fletcher said he’d win it before you get back—”  
  
The raider is out of his seat before she finishes. “Over my dead body! If he so much as breathes on my baby I’ll gut him!” He scampers away without a backwards glance.  
  
Spiked Boots watches him go, her face blank. Then she unlocks the cell door and aims her pipe pistol at Kaelyn. “Get the hell out here. Any funny business and we’ll see how you look with a few new holes.”  
  
Caught between confusion and fear, she complies.  
  
Spiked Boots’ face is closed off. “Time to go.”  
  
Adrenaline and ice flood Kaelyn’s veins.  
  
She considers fighting, but Spiked Boots jams the barrel of her pistol into the soft flesh under her jaw. The threat is enough to keep her still, cautious of even breathing, while Spiked Boots binds her wrists one-handed. The bag is next, swallowing her senses with its raspy sackcloth. Her skin prickles in the humid air, every nerve alert and compensating for her useless eyes. Her mouth is dryer than the Mojave Desert, her throat a ball of fire like someone force-fed her a shot of Bobrov’s Best. It’s hard to make out distant noises of raiders over the loud thumping of her heart. She wonders why they’re grabbing her now—but there’s only one reason.  
  
Packaging her up for delivery.  
  
Spiked Boots grabs her bound wrists and the pistol’s muzzle brushes against her back. With a shove, Kaelyn takes a step, then another. The days-old rope burns ache at the contact and are soon weeping again. Despite her straining senses, she can’t detect any other guards. But there are voices nearby—an exultant shout and a boo.  
  
Spike Boots yanks her to a halt. Her weight shifts; the air near Kaelyn’s shoulder warms from her sudden closeness. She whispers, “Stay quiet, you hear me?”  
  
Kaelyn would make a noise of understanding, but that would go against what she was just ordered to do. Spiked Boots yanks her into a crouch and prods her to move, so Kaelyn focuses on her feet, on planting each step with care, on Deacon’s lessons. She hopes he’s safe, wherever he is. Hopes against hope that he’s about to launch a rescue with Nate and Valentine and Dogmeat. There’s still a little time.  
  
Spiked Boots pulls her upright but Kaelyn keeps her footsteps as quiet as she can make them in her sturdy boots. Every noise prickles over her skin, without her eyes to balance her senses. Even the dull scrape of their shoes, debris grinding under the treads.

It’s impossible to keep track of their turns through the facility, but they seem to be moving away from sounds of other raiders. The air feels cool, gently whooshing by as they take the stairs. With every step there’s a vertiginous moment of empty air where her brain is convinced she’s going to fall, only for her toes to find the next step. More than once on their journey Spiked Boots yanks her sideways and orders her to stay still.  
  
Again, Kaelyn is told to stay still. The muzzle briefly presses into her back as an added incentive, then the air shifts and footsteps trace Spiked Boots’ path around her. Hinges creak, Spiked Boots hisses a curse, and a fresh breeze teases Kaelyn’s face through the fabric’s loose weave. Goosebumps break out over her arms.  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t know the exact moment she steps over the threshold; she only realizes when the ground shifts from flat and hard to soft and uneven. The air is cold and damp. Night time, probably. In the distance, human chatter takes the place of night insects, presumably from the guards on duty. She flinches at a loud bark of laughter and Spiked Boots tightens her grip on Kaelyn’s arm. She then forces Kaelyn to bend her head and rough edges of chain-link scrape at her arms and legs; the fence rattles like a cacophony of rusty tea spoons.  
  
Spiked Boots leads her into the woods. Away from the raider hideout.  
  
The hairs on the back of Kaelyn’s neck rise.  
  
After days of confinement with little food or rest, Kaelyn is soon puffed. Every sound scrapes over her nerves, trying to piece together a mental map of where they are, wondering what Spiked Boots is _doing_.  
  
At last Spiked Boots grips her shoulder and shoves her; her knees give out and she lands with a soft thunk into decaying leaf litter. The muzzle of the pipe pistol brushes the back of her head. This time her heartbeat stutters.  
  
“Move and you’re dead.”  
  
This is it. This is the moment they hand her over to meet a worse fate at the hands of her buyers. Or maybe Spiked Boots is just going to kill her here and now. A body still has to be worth something to her buyers.  
  
“I _said_ don’t move.”  
  
The cold flat of a knife brushes Kaelyn’s wrist. She shies away from it, to a hiss from her captor. Then it saws through her bindings. She goes still, holding her arms in place even after the rope falls away.  
  
What is this?  
  
Soft footfalls cross the damp leaves. Adrenaline spikes cold on her tongue. This has to be it.  
  
Except those footsteps are moving _away_ from Kaelyn.  
  
“Take off the blindfold.”  
  
Her fingers twitch, fighting the urge to comply at once, as she wonders what sick game this is.  
  
“Do it.”  
  
Kaelyn tears the bag free, hissing at the strands of hair that get pulled along with it. For once, her vision is not assaulted by bright light but met with a deep, soft gray that soon resolves enough to let her see shapes in the dark. They’re in the woods. A duffel sits on the ground beside her; it holds her belongings. She latches her pip-boy around her wrist, sighs at the familiar weight, and looks over her shoulder. Spiked Boots stands just behind a maple, watching with eyes that glimmer in the night. It’s too dark to make out her expression.  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t waste her time asking why. This is the opportunity and she isn’t going to question it. Collecting her belongings, she scrambles to her feet to face Spiked Boots.  
  
The raider points her weapon at the ground between them. “Get out of here.”  
  
Kaelyn blinks. “What?”  
  
“You heard me. Don’t tell me you want to be back in that cage.”  
  
“Why are you doing this?”  
  
She sets her jaw but doesn’t answer.  
  
Kaelyn thinks she knows, anyway. “If you’re willing to turn your life around, you could join the Minutemen.”  
  
She scoffs reflexively. “Firstly, they’re dumbasses. Secondly, they shoot raiders on sight.”  
  
“You can’t go back, either. Not after this.”  
  
Frustration crosses her face. “Just— just go. Before I change my mind.”  
  
This woman is full of empty threats. Before leaving, Kaelyn says, “Thank you. And I’m sorry about your family.”  
  
Settling the duffel over her shoulder, Kaelyn sets out without a backwards look, but she can feel a silent grief behind her back. After days of captivity her body is weak, and yet a heady combination of adrenaline and willpower keeps her going. She stumbles, falls, and gets back up. Dirt falls off her palms but clings to the weeping sores on her wrists. This—this is familiar. All the long days and longer nights during her search for Shaun, pressed into her soul until they left a permanent mark.  
  
This she knows. Knows she can survive.  
  
Nearby rustling sends Kaelyn skittering into a copse of trees. Just the sound of a creek loping through the valley. She darts down the bank, keeping a wary eye out for yao guai, and washes her hands and wrists. The icy water aches and stings and she can only imagine what the rads are doing to the sores, but it’s better than nothing. At least flowing water carries fewer rads than stagnant ponds. Sleeves drenched, she forces her cramping calves to obey and rises to her feet.  
  
It’s only when Kaelyn crosses a trio of saplings with a cluster of glowing fungus for the third time, she realizes she may be running in circles. She stops, closes her eyes. Tries to think.  
  
Nate showed her how to navigate without equipment.  
  
A grim smile carves her face. If she’s going to run blindly through the woods, she may as well run in a straight line.  
  
She finds two landmarks—the overpass behind her and a large oak on the crown of a hill before her—and slows her pace to a jog so she can look around without breaking her neck. Cold air burns her already dry throat with every breath. Her nose runs, forcing her to sniffle or choke. The shape of the forest vanishes in the gray.  
  
Kaelyn has to be careful. Yet she has to be _fast_. Being cautious to avoid an injury that might kill her without a stimpak is useless if her captors catch up to her.  
  
At dawn she takes stock of her belongings, finally able to see. Spiked Boots rescued her jacket, her pip-boy, her weapons, and even two small boxes of ammo. None of her medications were returned, but Spiked Boots had snagged a carton of dirty water for her.  
  
And the seeds. Every jar is accounted for, each one full with the wax stopper in place. Relief hits her with the force of a sudden gale, so profound she almost crumbles. With those seeds, this hasn’t been for nothing.  
  
Finally the dregs of Kaelyn’s resolve vanish and she collapses in the hollow of a tree’s roots. She succumbs to exhaustion, not to sleep, and wakes to a raindrop splashing on her nose. It could just be the clouds—thankfully a bruised purple, not suffused with green—but the world feels dim, dark. Her pip-boy reads 4:14pm.  
  
Time to move.  
  
Throat dry and burning, Kaelyn wastes another half-hour finding a creek whose water doesn’t look too foul to drink. It tastes rank but also far too good, momentarily soothing the burn in her throat. She’ll take the rads gladly. Without the sun, she has to take her best guess which way is east and hope she finds a road or, better yet, the overpass.  
  
Dogmeat would be able to track her. If he's okay.  
  
Kaelyn discovers neither as it grows darker, the shadows deepening with the first bruised hints of twilight slinking through the woods. A hill-rise springs out of the ground, offering enough of a view for her to get her bearings. With every lesson Deacon ever taught her in the forefront of her mind, she scales the slope in a crouch, darting from cover to cover.  
  
Sinking onto her stomach, Kaelyn crawls to a position that offers her a decent view of the valley and peers through the scope of her sniper rifle. An old path, half hidden by tangles of grass, winds along the valley floor to an old army bunker with a helipad near the entrance. The glorified concrete box is small, with most of its space likely hidden underground, but it has a lockable door and intact roof. Better yet, there are no signs of—  
  
A tiny click.  
  
She freezes.  
  
“Take your hands off your weapon and state your intentions.” A gruff voice. Low. Male.  
  
She does so, her fingers curling at the tension in the air, longing for the grip of her gun. “Just looking for a place to stay the night, but if that’s your bunker down there then I’ll move on.”  
  
Every second of silence stretches like melting toffee. Then: “Turn around.”  
  
As it turns out, using one’s elbows to roll onto one’s side to keep one’s hands in the air is harder than it sounds. The first thing that grabs her attention is the laser rifle pointed at her head.  
  
The second is his orange jumpsuit.  
  
Then, and only then, with a fresh dread curdling her gut, does her gaze skip up to meet that of the Brotherhood soldier holding her at gunpoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's interesting about Fallout 4 is that there's plenty of ambient dialogue from raiders that shows some of them recognise what they're becoming and want to get out. That their brutality is taking a toll on them. It makes me sad when I have to gun those particular raiders down because they could leave and become something better.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hereby dedicate this chapter to ScorpioSkies. Also thanks for betaing!

  
The soldier studies her as intently as she does him; the crease between his thick black eyebrows deepens.  
  
“Not Brotherhood,” he mutters to himself, and Kaelyn wonders why he feels the need to state the obvious. And why he eases up just a fraction at the judgment. “Raider or scavenger?”  
  
She flinches at _raider_. Checks the sores on her wrists aren’t visible. “Do you see this laser musket? Commonwealth Minutemen.”  
  
His mouth thins into a hard line and she makes a mental note to keep any further sass in check. “What are you doing out here alone?”  
  
“Got separated from my group by raiders. I just got away and now I need to find my family. Tell them I’m okay. If you’ll let me go on my way we can pretend this never happened.”  
  
He doesn’t budge. “These raiders. Were they nearby? Is there a chance they could be in pursuit?”  
  
What is it with soldier types and interrogations? “About half a day’s travel. I got a little lost in the wilderness, but—” her face pinches. “I don’t know if they’re still chasing me.”  
  
One moment passes, then another. Finally his steel-cold expression relents, and he lowers his weapon. As a bonus, Kaelyn can breathe again. “It’ll be dark soon. You can take shelter here the night, civilian, provided you don’t cause any trouble.”  
  
On second thought, maybe she’d rather brave the night than sleep in a Brotherhood outpost. But they’d offer protection if the raiders come calling…  
  
She fights a sigh.  
  
Retracting the stand on her sniper rifle, she slings it over her shoulder and moves at a gesture from the soldier. He keeps pace beside her as they make their way down the slope, and there’s an itch between her shoulder blades at having a Brotherhood member so close. The stress of hard living has been etched into this man’s face; his manner is brusque, closed off. Guilt rises from its slumber in the crevices of her heart.  
  
He can’t know about the Prydwen. Won’t know unless she betrays her involvement, so she’d better watch her tongue.  
  
Still, this is an unprecedented opportunity to gather information on the remnants of the Brotherhood and what they’ve been up to in the last few months. Deacon couldn’t wish for a better opportunity—but then again, he wouldn’t throw her into the lion’s den for a few scraps of firsthand knowledge.  
  
“What’s your name, civilian?”  
  
“What’s yours?”  
  
Kaelyn expects an _I asked first_. What she gets is: “Refusing to answer questions looks suspicious.”  
  
She considers and discards the idea of a fake name. If she doesn’t answer to it at any point, that will look suspicious. Hopefully the Brotherhood’s intel is underfunded. “Kaelyn.”  
  
He doesn’t shoot or arrest her, so that’s a good sign. “Pal— Danse.” His expression shutters and he steps ahead to unlock the bunker door.  
  
Unseen by him, Kaelyn raises an eyebrow. Interesting. “How many of you are here at this station?”  
  
“I am alone.”  
  
Her other eyebrow joins the first as she follows him inside. Two protectrons roam the space, skirting around rubble. The twin smells of wet concrete and dust pervade the room. Danse skirts around the desk to the back of the room and hits the call button for a cleverly concealed elevator. A whoosh of cold damp air heralds its arrival, and Danse waves Kaelyn in first. Gooseflesh breaks out over her arms, her ears momentarily filled with the hiss of gas pumped into a cryo pod. Fighting the chill, she leans against the elevator wall, as far away from Danse as she can manage. If he notices her wariness, he doesn’t comment.  
  
The lower level has been cleaned up, its loose rubble and broken furniture pushed to the walls to make room for a cooking fire and several crates that serve as chairs. An impressive pile of firewood sits out of range of any flying sparks. One wall sports an impressive hole that leads into a natural tunnel. In another corner, there’s a frame that holds a model of power armor Kaelyn has never seen before. And, intriguingly, its paint job is a slate gray. No heraldry.  
  
Neither of them really trust the other to sit down, so they stand for a tense, awkward moment until Danse kneels to clear out the charcoal from the circle of cinder blocks and restart the fire. Kaelyn takes the crate closest to the elevator, setting her rifles down by her feet. He doesn’t insist she disarm, which is a courtesy she hadn’t expected.  
  
That doesn’t stop him from keeping her in his peripheral vision the whole time—and throwing a wayward look at her personal arsenal. “That sniper rifle. Can you use it?”  
  
Why do men always ask her that? “Yes.”  
  
With the fire now dancing in trails as orange as Danse’s jumpsuit, he peels off his hood and runs a hand through his dark hair. Kaelyn notices for the first time how fluffy it is. His beard wouldn’t meet the regs in the US Army but perhaps the Brotherhood, for all their military trappings, haven’t kept personal grooming standards alive.  
  
There’s something about his appearance that nags at her. Something familiar.  
  
“That power armor.” Kaelyn jerks her chin in its direction. “What model is it?”  
  
“X-01. Rare to find, but it offers the best protection a soldier could ask for. Don’t even think about trying to steal it, civilian.”  
  
Since power armor serves as a means of transport as well as protection, would it count as grand theft auto? Kaelyn amuses herself by considering the question, what she can remember of the law’s wording, whether a clever lawyer could make a case. This occupies her mind while she helps prepare dinner, unbidden, after he offers up a tin of pork’n’beans from his own supplies to fry. Nate always told her that frying food makes it taste better, and he’s right.  
  
Danse asks, “Where are you headed?”  
  
“To the Castle,” Kaelyn answers. “My family is there. Worried sick, most likely. Speaking of, this is a pre-war military base, right? Could it still have a working radio?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Danse says, “but I cannot risk this place being detected.”  
  
“I see.” She keeps her face smooth. Something about this entire situation is off. A lone soldier without his standard-issue power armor who wants to stay off the grid.  
  
Then again, this suits her just fine.  
  
Kaelyn guzzles the can of purified water Danse offers. Drinking clean water has never felt so good, even when her stretched stomach complains at the sudden influx. After dinner they both tend their weapons, taking furtive looks at the other’s loadout. Danse is equipped with a laser rifle that sports too many mods to be standard-issue and a laser pistol as a sidearm. A quiet part in the back of her mind is concerned that she’s fought enough Brotherhood soldiers to tell what’s usual and what isn’t.  
  
Kaelyn keeps her eyes on Deliverer as she unscrews the suppressor for cleaning. As if she’s thinking of nothing more than getting every last grain of sand out of her gun.  
  
She’ll have to tread carefully.  
  
“Where is the rest of your squad? I didn’t think the Brotherhood had solo operatives. Not that I’ve seen any patrols since—oh.” Her mouth snaps closed at his expression.  
  
He isn’t glaring at her. It would be easier if he was. No, his expression cracks for a single moment, and in that moment she sees grief and bitterness in equal measure.  
  
“The Commonwealth mission was a failure,” is all he says.  
  
This isn’t a wound she’s comfortable prodding, not when she carries the blame for it. Deacon can reprimand her with sarcastic barbs later for giving up so easily when _hello_ , the Brotherhood shot first. Killed Glory.  
  
Yeah, if her inner Deacon is getting snarky with her, the real deal would definitely have her head by now.  
  
Kaelyn twitches when Danse continues, so softly he must be talking to himself, “This campaign has been one failure after another before we even reached Cambridge.”  
  
Now she remembers—he’d been the commanding officer at the Cambridge Police Station who ran her off after she helped repel a feral attack, simply because she refused to tell him where she was headed.  
  
Except there’s one problem: he’s still alive.  
  
Wracking her disjointed memories of black and orange, of night and fire, she seeks any recollection of him at that battle. Draws a blank. Either it’s a part of the memories her mind walled off, or he wasn’t there at the time. Here’s hoping he doesn’t recognize her in return.  
  
“Something concerns you?”  
  
Kaelyn twitches, clamping down on a full flinch. “Just— my family will be frantic. The sooner I can prove I’m alive and well, the better.”  
  
And Dogmeat. She doesn’t even know if he’s still alive. If any search party found him. The first thing she’s going to do after telling Nate and Valentine she’s alive is find her dog. He deserves better than to be forgotten on some beach when he’s been her tireless companion since day one out of the vault.  
  
Kaelyn presses the heel of her palm into her eye socket and wills away the heat behind her eyes. The movement causes her jacket to slide over her raw wrist, which stings at the contact. She picks at the sticky hem and inspects it as surreptitiously as she can. No longer oozing fluid, it’s now formed a tender scab that bracelets her wrist. The redness worries her; these wounds need a thorough cleaning. Tending her scrapes with a stranger—a Brotherhood paladin, no less—present requires a trust she cannot muster. Besides, Spiked Boots didn’t return any of her medical supplies, and the Brotherhood have never been advocates of ‘sharing is caring’.  
  
Lying down would leave her vulnerable, so Kaelyn leans back against the old desk. With the cheery little fire, the drowsiness adrenaline held at bay descends on her once more. She settles more comfortably in her jacket—and the elevator rumbles.  
  
Their eyes meet across the fire.  
  
Kaelyn’s hand finds Deliverer. “Thought you said you were the only one here.”  
  
Danse is halfway to his feet. “I am. Hide somewhere. _Now._ _”_  
  
While he takes up a position behind the desk—and if Kaelyn knows it makes for poor cover, he must be painfully aware of it—she darts around the corner, out of sight from the elevator, and goes down on one knee. After cranking the handle on her laser musket, she checks the stealth boy at her hip.  
  
She doesn’t go as far as he would like, judging by the sideways look he sends her. His expression is set in stone, but there’s something about his eyes. A ring of white around his irises, and when he glances in her direction there’s a hint of pain.  
  
The elevator dings. Several sets of footsteps spill out; perhaps four or five. Who knew her recent forays with temporary blindness would be useful. Laughter cuts off, replaced by a speculative whistle. “Well, well. What have we got here?”  
  
Danse draws himself up to his full intimidating height. He looks much more confident than he did a moment ago. “Gunners.”  
  
He likely says it for Kaelyn’s benefit. From her position, she can’t see them.  
  
“Naw man. That’s us. You look like one of those Brotherhood assholes. Hope you don’t mind we let ourselves in. You know, from the look of the place upstairs I could have sworn it was deserted. What a surprise this is.”  
  
If she has to give Danse one thing, it’s that he doesn’t betray any emotion but contempt. “Leave these premises at once.”  
  
“You and what army will make us? Oh, that’s right—someone shot down that airship of yours. You got nothin’, pal. Wish I could buy the sonofabitch that did it a drink.”  
  
Well this is awkward.  
  
Danse’s jaw is clenched so tightly it’s a wonder his teeth haven’t cracked yet. “This is your last warning. Leave now.”  
  
“Oh sure, we can do that. After we find what goodies you’ve stored down here. Like that power armor, for instance. Day- _um_. You Brotherhood types are great at finding things of use, but pretty shit at sharing ’em.”  
  
“We keep technology safe from the likes of you,” Danse spits.  
  
For the first time, Kaelyn can understand the Brotherhood’s perspective on tech hoarding.  
  
Someone laughs. A woman, by the sound of her voice. “You can try. Think you can take on six of us by yourself?”  
  
Nothing in Danse’s manner gives Kaelyn away; he doesn’t even twitch in her direction.  
  
She slides her finger inside the trigger guard. Pauses. Before anyone starts shooting, she needs a plan. This cover won’t last her if anyone rounds the corner.  
  
Across the room, the X-01 suit is slumped, its eye slits black and glittering. Kaelyn glances between it and Danse and the booted toe of the lead Gunner, just visible from her position.  
  
“Over my dead body,” Danse snaps.  
  
The situation is about to explode. Hitting her stealth boy, she rises into a half-crouch and sticks to the shadows as much as possible, hoping they’re all too distracted to notice the scrape of her boots.  
  
“Then that’s what’s gonna happen, buddy!”  
  
The first shot is explosively loud. Someone yells in pain, then it’s a free-for-all of gunfire and taunts.  
  
Sliding around to the back of the power armor, she’s relieved to see a fusion core already slotted into place. Good. There’s no masking the sound of the hydraulics as the suit opens to admit her. No masking the movement of the rear hatch lifting. Kaelyn throws herself inside and hits the button to close the suit as systems power on.  
  
“What the—?!”  
  
Bullets ping off the breastplate; Danse takes advantage of the gang’s sudden distraction to down another Gunner, ignoring his protected chest for his vulnerable head. Show off.  
  
Ensconced in the power armor, Kaelyn feels a rush, immediate and heady, from the incredible protection and the power it offers. For the first time since leaving Warwick Homestead, she feels safe. In the middle of a firefight.  
  
The suit is unfamiliar; she takes a precious second to find a way to rest the stock of her laser musket against her shoulder and fires. One of the Gunners drops, her chest blackened and flaking. The power armor’s interior is roomy—almost too roomy, the harness adjusted for someone twice her size—but the sensors still track to her leg as she takes one floor-shaking step forward, then another.  
  
Gunners are stubborn; one visibly pales but they only rush into what cover is available, snapping and snarling at each other.  
  
“Who’s in the power armor?”  
  
“Doesn’t matter! Focus on the joints!”  
  
“Take out the weak one first!”  
  
Kaelyn stomps forward at that to take the heat off Danse. She laughs as they fire at her again, their quality weapons good only for chipping the paint job. She cranks her musket and fires when a head pops out of cover.  
  
Even if her musket is slow to reload, nobody can do any damage to her suit. Indeed, she stomps around a desk to take out the man behind it—  
  
Movement in her peripheral, and a knife thunks into her elbow. Kaelyn backhands the woman and she goes flying into the wall, then crumples to the ground. Kaelyn spares a grimace at the crunch of bone. Then she turns back to the man, who’s emptying his clip into her side. She fires once, and he falls.  
  
Quiet.  
  
Kaelyn glances around, hears something rasping. The woman she’d thrown into the wall drags herself on her elbows, reaching for a pistol. Danse strides over to the Gunner and puts a bullet in her head.  
  
“This facility is compromised. We need to evacuate, now.” He looks her over, mouth pinched. “And I need my armor back.”  
  
Kaelyn gives it up without a fight. She doesn’t miss the way his grip loosens on his rifle when she steps out of the suit, even if she gives it one last fond look. While it smells like a dusty crypt—and she’s intimately familiar with those—the protection it offers humbles even her T-51, offering a heady rush of certainty that nothing can get through the curved steel plates.  
  
The armor closes around Danse and he runs the briefest of system checks. “Stay behind me. We have no idea what we’re walking into up there.”  
  
There will be no arguments from her quarter.  
  
In the elevator, _cramped_ is an understatement. The cables groan with the weight, but Kaelyn reminds herself that someone got the suit down there in the first place and she can’t weigh that much extra. Squished between the wall and Danse’s back, her quick breaths reflect off the steel plates. Like it bounced off the pod lid in Vault 111.  
  
The doors sweep open and it’s a good thing Danse volunteers to take the lead because she needs to take a moment to lean back against the wall, shuddering and gasping for air that’s too cold.  
  
“Keep moving,” Danse barks. “We don’t have time to waste.”  
  
She startles. “Coming.” Jogging to his side, they exit the bunker.  
  
“Benny, there you—” The speaker goes down to a trio of laser bolts. The whites of his eyes are bright in the dark.  
  
Kaelyn shoots a second in the arm and ducks behind Danse’s bulk to crank the musket handle twice before leaning out to finish the Gunner. Bullets whizz past her to hit the bunker wall in a shower of concrete chips—  
  
Pain explodes in her back. She lands heavily, her body crunching against the concrete. The force of it knocks the wind from her lungs, knocks the stars from the sky to hover in front of her eyes. She twists to find a silhouette standing on the bunker roof.  
  
“Behind us! The roof!”  
  
Danse turns, rifle raised to fire. Church bells toll in her ears, drowning out all but the loudest of shouts. She sucks in breath after breath, willing her head to clear, and reaches to probe the bullet-turned-bruise on her back.  
  
Kaelyn makes it to her feet and tries to blink away the last of the white stars impeding her vision. It doesn’t stop her from raising her musket to fire at a moving shadow. She and Danse both shoot at the last Gunner; it doesn’t matter which one landed the killing shot. She waits a few moments, cranks the handle of her musket again, but none of the fallen Gunners rise.  
  
“Area secure!”  
  
It’s a good thing Danse is still alert. Kaelyn conducts her own sweep, seeking the dark spots where _she_ would lurk were she the attacker instead of the defender. “Then let’s go.”  
  
Running from raiders is becoming too familiar. Breaths loud in the night, feet thumping as loud as her heart, they stumble through the underbrush. With Danse’s power armor, they have no hope of sneaking into the black. Her harsh pants, as loud as an ocean gale whipping past her ears, is lost underneath Danse’s creaking stomps. Branches snap as he passes, their soft leaves torn and twigs sheared to jagged points that scratch her face when she follows.  
  
She doesn’t know how long they run for, only that when they stop her pulse hammers in her throat, the tips of her fingers, her feet.  
  
Danse gives Kaelyn a leg up into a nearby tree, and she peers down the scope of her sniper rifle. Every rustle in the underbrush attracts her attention, and she overshoots several times with the sensitive scope. Dragging in a deep breath, then another, she imagines Deacon is hovering over her shoulder, reminding her to be calm and steady.  
  
“Do you see anything?”  
  
“No movement. I can’t hear any signs of pursuit, either.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods yet.” Kaelyn would have sworn that’s a pun if not for his earnest delivery. “Come down. We need to keep moving.”  
  
An inopportune leg cramp almost sends her falling out of the tree, and she massages her calf as best she can before Danse insists they move out. It takes every ounce of energy she has left to move, trotting to keep up with his broad stride. She feels like a marionette whose strings are tangled around her limbs, whose thrashing only tightens the tangles. Heat radiates from her skin, pushing away the night’s chill. She grits her teeth and endures it as they run.  
  
When Danse slows to a manageable pace she almost cries. Except he stops abruptly and almost takes her out when he raises an arm to disengage the seals on his helmet. Pulling it off, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “This should be a sufficient distance. For the moment. I was expecting… trouble, but not from them.”  
  
“Did you actually steal the power armor from them?”  
  
“Raiders and the ilk often claim what doesn’t belong to them. At the time I wasn’t aware they knew of the suit’s existence, but that was evidently a miscalculation on my part.”  
  
Ah, it never ceases to amaze her how people can justify why stealing isn’t stealing. “I can see why they’d want it. The hydraulics stick, but that is the best suit of power armor I have ever used.”  
  
Danse narrows his eyes. “Your maneuver with my power armor was reckless.” Before she has time to get offended, he concedes, “But it also likely saved our lives. Where did you learn to handle power armor?”  
  
“My husband told me a thing or two about it; the rest I picked up on my own.” At his skeptical look, she shrugs. “There’s nothing like a raider gang closing in on you to teach you how to fight.”  
  
He grunts at that. “Civilians should not be permitted near power armor, but in this instance I’ll overlook it.”  
  
Kaelyn has to choke back a laugh at her husband being referred to as a _civilian_. Revealing that he’s a US Army veteran, two hundred years after the military ceased to exist, would raise questions she doesn’t want to answer.  
  
Still, she isn’t as good at masking her amusement than she should be, earning a critical look from Danse. “You’re dead on your feet,” he says gruffly. “Get some sleep.”  
  
“What about you?” The bags under his eyes are as deep as her own, and twice as obvious against his white skin.  
  
“I’m not the one at risk of shooting a friendly,” he retorts. “I’ll keep watch while you rest.”  
  
After a brief debate whether to face him or turn her back, Kaelyn curls up on her side. What a twist of fate that a Brotherhood soldier volunteered to watch out for her. She doesn’t mean to sleep, and she certainly doesn’t mean to take a hand off Deliverer, but the stress of the last few days gallops to meet her on the heels of her fading adrenaline. Not even the rock jabbing into her kidney can keep her awake.

—

Nails digging into the bars of her cage, Kaelyn launches herself up, eyes wild, searching for threats. Only a fresh breeze cools the sweat on her face, dries her tongue as she pants. The metal under her fingers is too soft, and when she brings a hand up there are brown crescents of dirt under her nails.  
  
Not there anymore. She’s not there anymore.  
  
Movement in her periphery causes her to shrink away. Belatedly, she recognizes that Brotherhood soldier, and that he’s been as good as his word. Danse says nothing; he tosses her a water canister and scans the tree line again. Wiping her face on her sleeve, Kaelyn takes a sip to clear the sticky taste of fear from her mouth.  
  
Her quiet rasp breaks the silence. “I’m up now, so I’ll keep watch if you want to sleep.”  
  
“No need.”  
  
Kaelyn raises an eyebrow. He looks as bad as she feels. He’s still in his power armor; somehow she doubts he’s exited it at any point while she was sleeping.  
  
And he does not appreciate her silent skepticism. “Your concern is noted, but we need to keep moving. We have no intel on the Gunners’ movements, but I doubt we’re safe here.”  
  
Given Kaelyn’s own reticence about sleeping, she shouldn’t be throwing stones. Plus she suspects his reasons are similar to her own. Over a cold breakfast she consults her pip-boy, trying to get a sense of their location. The overpass isn’t visible through the trees, and the brown woods merge into a bland sameness. If she was lost before, now she’s terribly lost. A glance upwards at the sun tells her east from west, which is enough of a guide for her.  
  
“Let’s head east.”  
  
Danse, however, has other plans. “We came from the north-east. Going back would be walking straight into their hands.”  
  
“So we go south and then east. Skirt the suburbs if we—or I—have to. You don’t have to stick with me if you’re so opposed.”  
  
His mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching. But his next words are the last thing she expects to hear. “I… have nothing else.”  
  
The bleakness in his gaze troubles her. She’s seen too many pairs of eyes like that, dark, absent. Knows something of the path he’s on, and where it can lead. “But,” she says, gently, “aren’t there still other Brotherhood personnel that survived? Couldn’t you find them?”  
  
And now she’s advising the enemy to regroup and gather their strength. Deacon might disown her for this.  
  
“That isn’t an option.” He says it with such grief that she double takes.  
  
“I’m sorry.” She isn’t entirely sure what for. Destroying the Prydwen, if nothing else. Valentine said they hadn’t deserved it and he, as usual, had been right. “You’re right about walking back into Gunner territory, though. The more distance between me and them, the happier I’ll be. Shall we get moving?”  
  
Danse seems to appreciate her focus on the matter at hand, if nothing else. They break camp and hide the traces of their presence as best they can before setting south to find the nearest road. Not ten minutes later there’s a flash of color through the trees; the breeze changes, carrying the scent of blood and rotting meat.  
  
“Stay behind me,” Danse orders. His laser rifle whines when he switches off the safety, so high-pitched it makes her teeth itch.  
  
With her own laser musket primed to fire, Kaelyn peers around the bulk of his armor as they step into the clearing to find the remains of a camp. A merchant caravan, judging by the slaughtered brahmin and scattered belongings. Four bodies are splayed around the smoldering remnants of a camp fire. Gunners, from the green of their fatigues.  
  
Rifling amongst the wreckage is a man in rough leathers. A scavver, perhaps, or possibly the culprit. Kaelyn doesn’t subscribe to shotgun justice but still watches for any hint of guilt. As a defense lawyer, she knows its face.  
  
The man rises to his feet between one heartbeat and the next, hand resting on the pistol at his hip. “You don’t know anything about this, do you?” He indicates the remains of the caravan splayed around the clearing.  
  
“No, we came from the north.” Kaelyn wanders as close as she dares to one of the dead brahmin. That isn’t close, as it turns out. She seeks the little details Valentine would notice to deduce the series of events.  
  
_The smallest detail can change everything,_ he always tells her. _Eyes peeled and ears open. Or eyes open and ears peeled, if you prefer._  
  
“They killed the brahmin, but didn’t butcher them for meat,” Kaelyn says. “Why waste the food?”  
  
Danse crouches by a boot print in the ash around the dead fire. “Because they didn’t have the time or inclination.”  
  
“Raiders would go for the goods… unless they were hired to take someone.” In that moment, Kaelyn is glad her skin is too dark for anyone to notice the blood leaving her face. Still, she isn't confident enough in her poker face to risk the men seeing, so she turns away to the abandoned trunks of supplies. Instead of having a moment to regain her poise, her stomach drops. Running her fingers over the symbol carved into the brahmin’s yoke, she needs the touch to confirm to herself that it’s Old Man Stockton’s brand.  
  
The caravan could have been attacked for any reason. Or it could have been attacked for the synth it was smuggling to the border.  
  
“What’s your interest in this, mercenary?” Danse asks.  
  
The merc says, “Honest Dan. Hired to find a girl named Amelia Stockton.”  
  
Kaelyn spins on her heel. “Amelia? Old Man Stockton’s girl? _She_ was leading this caravan?”  
  
“You know her?” Danse asks.  
  
“Yeah. I’ve done jobs for her father before. She’s a good kid.” To Honest Dan, she asks, “Do you have any leads?”  
  
“There’s this nearby settlement. Covenant. They trade with Old Man Stockton’s caravans, but claim she never passed through. Only I found the kid’s ledger to prove otherwise.” He digs a scorched book out of his pack and tosses it to Kaelyn. She flips to the last entry and there is indeed a record of what Amelia bought and sold from the settlement. “There’s something… off about that place. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been in this line of work long enough to know something’s rotten under those damn facades. Look, lady, you seem to care about the girl. You guard my back, maybe try to wring some damn answers from Covenant, and I’ll split evenly with you.”  
  
“Deal.” She glances to Danse. “Are you in, too? We’ll split three ways.”  
  
He hesitates, perhaps offended at the notion of taking common mercenary work, but then nods. “That’s an acceptable arrangement.”  
  
Splitting three ways would normally stretch the worth of a job, but Old Man Stockton can afford to pay a bonus. Plus she’d almost prefer he owe her a favor than owe her caps.  
  
Honest Dan nods, and Kaelyn hopes he lives up to his name. “Covenant’s got some weird entry policy. You have to pass a test before they’ll let you in.”  
  
She’d heard rumors of a walled community with strict entry requirements. This isn't how she’d wanted to explore the place. “Lead on, then.”  
  
Part of her wants to throw up her hands and run for the Castle, but it’s outweighed by the part of her that needs to find Amelia. To find out if she’s even still alive.  
  
_Just hold on, Nate. I_ _’ll come home as soon as I can._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like, you can come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://eluvisen.tumblr.com/)!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

Covenant’s walls, smooth and gray and edged with barbed wire, are entirely unlike most settlements’ makeshift defenses. Kaelyn recognizes the area; in a twist of fate, she’s somehow ended up closer to Sanctuary Hills than the Castle. On the other hand, it doesn’t do her any good when she refuses to lead one stranger—now two—to her home. But once they’ve found Amelia, she can be on her way at once.

Honest Dan marches up to the welcome desk. “Swanson.”

The man behind the desk grunts. “You again.”

Kaelyn raises an eyebrow. With a reception like that, it’s no wonder Honest Dan’s investigation has stalled. She puts on her best smile the way one would put on their best shirt. “I see my associate here has made an impression.”

Swanson—a man who lives up to his namesake with a long neck, his body rendered in shades of white—looks her up and down. “Can’t say I recognize you. Welcome to Covenant, the safest settlement in the Commonwealth. We pride ourselves on being the only trading hub in the ’Wealth that guarantees a safe shopping experience. Undesirables aren’t welcome here.”

Myrna might disagree with that claim. Falling back on years of experience in the courtroom, Kaelyn smiles as revulsion grips her stomach. “A guarantee? How do you do it?”

“Well, little lady, Covenant has an entrance test that ensures only upstanding citizens can enter the settlement. It weeds out all the aforementioned degenerates. We call it the SAFE test.” He says the word ‘degenerate’ with a contempt that wouldn’t be out of place when someone from the old world said ‘communist’.

“Degenerates? That word could have so many meanings.” Could refer to so many groups of people. She manages to keep her voice neutral, if only just.

“There are ghouls and raiders, of course, but also…” Swanson’s voice drops to a whisper as he leans across his desk. “Not everyone in the Commonwealth is human, you know? Some are... synths. I’m not gonna say anything more than that.” To Honest Dan, he says, “You can proceed, but your friends here gotta take the test.”

Honest Dan folds his arms over his chest and plants his weight on one foot. “I’ll wait for them if it’s all the same to you.”

Kaelyn glances back at Danse, who has been too quiet. “Do we have to take the test individually, or can I take it on behalf of me and my associate?”

“Anyone who wants to enter Covenant has to be screened individually. If you sit down, we can begin with you. Just relax and answer honestly. There ain’t no wrong answers.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you use this test as grounds to permit or bar entry to Covenant, there are wrong answers.”

Swanson clears his throat loudly and shuffles his papers, spots of red appearing on his pale cheeks. It didn’t take much to unravel his welcoming facade. Any pre-war receptionist would be ashamed. He pulls out a fresh sheet of paper and jots down her name. “Let’s begin. You are approached by a frenzied scientist, who yells, ‘I’m going to put my quantum harmonizer in your photonic resonation chamber!’ What’s your response?”

Is this for real? Kaelyn can’t even squint and pretend the prosecution is hammering her with hard questions. “I’d take the first opportunity to sneak away before he can put his quantum harmonizer anywhere.”

Swanson scribbles something on his clipboard. “While working as an intern in the clinic, a patient with a strange infection on his foot stumbles through the door. The infection is spreading at an alarming rate, but the doctor has stepped out for a while. What do you do?”

“Scream for someone more qualified than me to help.”

Over Swanson’s shoulder, perched in the upper corner of his three-walled shack, something glints. The lens of a camera. Kaelyn doesn’t linger, lets her eyes skip around the shack as if she hadn’t noticed. If they’d gone to the effort of finding and installing a camera, it couldn’t be for show. Not when the average wastelander wouldn’t even recognize it.

“You discover a young boy lost in the lower levels of a cave. He’s hungry and frightened, but also appears to be in possession of stolen property. What do you do?”

She has to swallow past the lump in her throat. Tries not to think of her son. “I’d—give him a hug. Tell him everything will be okay.”

Swanson takes a moment to scribble something on his clipboard, and she prays he isn’t noting her odd reaction to the question. A pity that the camera is functioning. “Congratulations.” Never has there been a less enthusiastic commendation delivered. “You’ve made the Commonwealth baseball team—”

“Red Sox,” Kaelyn mutters. More because she can sense Nate’s facepalm halfway across the Commonwealth than because she’s offended. As his wife, she has to defend his honor.

He continues as if she hadn’t interrupted his unenthusiastic drone. “Which position would you pick?”

Kaelyn leans back in her seat. “You should be asking my husband that one. He loves baseball.”

Swanson’s watery gaze flicks over her shoulder to Danse. “Your husband has to wait his turn.”

She almost falls out of her chair. “What? No! He’s not my husband!”

Danse is as mortified as she is, beet red and spluttering. Meanwhile, Honest Dan is laughing off to the side.

Kaelyn clears her throat and tries to reclaim her dignity. “To answer your question, if I had to pick, it would be I’d honestly prefer soccer.”

This time Swanson takes longer to record his observations. Hopefully he’s making a note that she is not married to a _Brotherhood paladin_. “Your grandmother invites you to tea, but you’re surprised when she gives you a pistol and orders you to kill someone. What do you do?”

“Seriously? My _a_ _̄ccī_ was a formidable woman. She’d have done it herself.” The memories are old enough that Kaelyn has only fondness, without the sting of loss.

Swanson’s smile is made from brittle plastic. “This is a hypothetical situation. You must answer every question properly to the best of you ability. Now what would you do?”

Kaelyn holds back a sigh. “Confiscate the gun and tell her no.” It’s what she would do now, but her ten-year-old self would have never stood up to an elder.

“Old Mr. Abernathy has locked himself in his quarters again, and you’ve been ordered to get him out. How do you proceed?”

Huh. A question to which she has real life experience to draw from. “Pick the lock. And duck when he throws something at the door.”

One of the men behind her snorts. Probably Dan, since the Brotherhood stripped humour out of its personnel in training.

“Oh no. You’ve been exposed to radiation, and a mutated hand has grown out of your stomach. What’s the best course of treatment?”

Nevermind that radiation doesn’t work like that. Kaelyn wants to rub her forehead; instead she folds her hands in her lap. “As high a dose of anti-mutagen agent that my body can handle.”

“A neighbor is in possession of Grognak the Barbarian issue one. You want it. What’s the best way to obtain it?”

“This is the part where you catch most people out because they say they’d kill for it, right?” When Swanson remains unmoved, Kaelyn says, “I’d trade for it and hope my husband appreciates how much I love him, because I sure don’t want that comic.”

Honest Dan makes a noise of complaint, and Swanson shoots him a glare before continuing. “You decide it would be fun to play a prank on your father. You enter his private restroom when no one is looking, and...”

Kaelyn leans back in her seat. “How would I prank my _tatta?_ So many possibilities.” She drums her fingers on her thigh while she thinks, considering and dismissing a number of possibilities, either for being too harsh or not harsh enough. “Change the wattage on his electric razor so he gets a shock the next time he shaves.”

Swanson scribbles down the last of his notes and spends the next minute consulting another sheaf of paper. Then he gives her a smile that fails to conceal the boredom lounging on his face. “Heh. No one’s ever answered quite like you but hey, you passed. Now if your last associate will sit down, we can see if he’ll pass too.”

Two hundred years and customer service hasn’t changed.

Danse’s answers favor brawn over stealth or finesse, but in the end Swanson also proclaims him fit to enter Covenant. But when Danse’s back is turned, he scribbles another note on the sheet. In the corner, the camera still watches.

Danse clears his throat, claiming Kaelyn’s attention. “How do you know what an electric razor is?”

It takes a moment to register why that wouldn’t be common knowledge. Kaelyn keeps her face smooth even if an alarm sounds in the back of her mind. “I read everything that is still legible. Amazing the things you can learn.”

“Don’t evade the question,” he retorts. “If you possess a pip-boy, you were likely a vault dweller.”

She almost deflates in relief. As much as she dislikes sharing the nature of Vault 111’s experiment, this is something she can freely admit to. “You’re right. And anything beyond that is not up for discussion.”

He gives her a terse, “Understood.”

The good thing about soldiers is that they understand painful conversation topics.

The guards inspect all their weapons, and Danse is compelled to leave his power armor at the checkpoint. Although he complies with a stern warning of the consequences if anyone so much as touches his armor. Despite taking out the fusion core as added insurance that his suit won’t go walking without him, he knows as well as Kaelyn that all a thief needs is another core.

Danse looks so much smaller without its massive bulk, even—dare she say it—vulnerable in only his orange flight suit. Perhaps she’s reading too much into it from last night’s fight. Scorch marks still pepper the tough leather hugging his chest.

Danse remains close by her side while they wait for Swanson to radio the guards on gate duty. His voice is low, squeezed out through a clenched jaw. “Is it possible their test can determine human from machine?”

The last thing anyone needs is the Brotherhood getting their hands on this. Even if its results are wrong. Especially if they’re wrong. “Doubt it. Ghouls are obvious, as are your average two-cap thugs. As for synths… gen threes are indistinguishable from humans. That’s the point.”

Danse is quiet for a moment. Then: “You don’t sound perturbed by the prospect.”

 _Here we go._ “Why should I? Without the Institute controlling them, they aren’t the enemy. They just want to live their own lives.”

“They’re machines that can be mistaken for human!” Danse snaps. “How do you not see how dangerous that is?”

Honest Dan shoots them both a glare. “Keep it down, you two, before they kick you out for just saying the s-word.”

The gates finally open with groaning hinges. Kaelyn steps inside the walls and stops dead.

Covenant is a little suburb of cheery little houses arranged in a cul-de-sac around a great tree, their steep tiled roofs piercing the deep blue sky. It’s like stepping backwards into the past, from the mailboxes to the cheery whistles of the neighbors going about their gardening, right down to the white picket fences.

“Something wrong?” Honest Dan asks.

“It’s almost pre-war.”

Now that she’s said it, the _almost_ part becomes more obvious: the colors on the houses are faded and patchy from low-quality paint, the gardens full of mutfruit bushes instead of roses, and the white picket fences dirty and gray from exposure. There are no carports and not a car to be seen. And of course the machine guns rattling on the walls can’t be ignored. Civilian zones never merited such protection.

And yet it’s enough to make her heart clench. Nate’s parents had lived in a house like this in one of the older suburbs. It had been too small to raise four rambunctious boys, but they’d made do.

Kaelyn clears her throat. “What progress have you made?”

Honest Dan scowls at the pleasant suburb. “Besides pissing off the locals? None. All the fake smiles and fancy words are putting me on edge.”

She wishes Valentine were here. He’d have a better idea of how to conduct a missing person investigation. But then again, they’d never let an obvious synth through the door. And she wouldn’t subject him to this just so he can hold her hand through an investigation.

No, he said she’s his partner. Time to live up to that detective’s fedora.

As Valentine would say, the first part of an investigation is asking questions, piecing together the story—and the gaps in the story. So that’s what she does, wandering up to the nearest settler to ask questions. The housewife persona feels unfamiliar, stretching the limits of her acting ability from months of disuse. Kaelyn smiles and giggles as if her probing is of no more consequence than discussing gardening with Mrs Able. She ignores the fact that rough leathers are much heavier than a blouse and skirt. Ignores the weapons slung over her shoulder. Most people politely brush her off with shrugs and deferrals and smiles that don’t reach their eyes.

Kaelyn’s first victory is, ironically, thanks to Honest Dan’s blundering.

“You there.” He gestures to a white woman in mechanics coveralls, and she reluctantly lets him approach. “Do you know anything about the caravan of five that passed through here and was massacred outside your doorstep?”

The woman pales further. Nervous with a hint of a stutter. “No. Sorry. We get a lot of traffic and I’m always busy helping Penny. Ask her if you don’t believe me.”

“Please, don’t mind my associate here,” Kaelyn says with the brightest smile she can muster. “I’m Kaelyn. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh. Hi. I heard of you. You’re the stranger. I make things. Things for the store. I’m Talia. It’s so nice to meet you. You’re going to like it here. Everyone in Covenant is so friendly and willing to help.”

“In that case, maybe you can help me. You got a few minutes for some questions? Do you know anything about Stockton’s caravan?”

She gives a quick denial. “No. Sorry. They never came through here.”

When Kaelyn pounces, she does so with a polite bewilderment. “How could you know that they didn’t if you were too busy working to notice?”

Talia winces. “I, uh, hear things. From the neighbors. That’s what they said.”

“Does Covenant have some sort of problem with synths?”

“Synths?” she gasps, eyes widening. “I mean, no. The test makes sure none of those get in here. They promised.”

Now that is definitely a slip, and an intriguing one.

“‘They’? Who promised this, and why?”

Just like that, Talia’s face shuts down. “I, uh, have to get back to work or Penny’s going to be mad at me. Sorry.”

The next man Kaelyn flags down brushes her off with a “Meaning no offense, but I have a mountain of work to do,” and disappears into the cornrows.

“No one here is forthcoming with information, and that woman was especially nervous,” Danse says. He has the good sense to pitch his voice low so only Kaelyn and Dan can hear. “Which makes me wonder what they have to hide.”

Kaelyn hums. “Nobody jump to conclusions yet, but there’s something off about this place.”

Or maybe pre-war sensibilities are so out of the place in the Wasteland that she’s seeing patterns that don’t exist. She has to wonder what it says about her that picket fences and neighborly courtesy now put her on edge.

A Mr Handy missing his chassis shell waves them over with his sawblade. “Would you like some free lemonade?”

“No,” Danse says.

“Already told you no, rust bucket,” Honest Dan says. “My job here ain’t drinking lemonade.”

Kaelyn, however, cocks her head. Her stomach and throat tighten, reminding her of how long it’s been since she drank water. “Nothing’s free in the Wasteland. What’s the catch?”

“No catches and no gimmicks!” He crows. “Just a glass of Deezer’s Lemonade, free to our guests! You won’t find better in the Commonwealth or out of it!”

She’s hungry enough, thirsty enough, that turning down free food would be like setting herself on fire. “If I pass out from this, you’ll stop them from carrying me away to the secret torture dungeon, right?”

Honest Dan snorts. “Better you than me.”

Deezer’s beverage barely resembles lemonade as Kaelyn knows it, but it’s cool and tangy and soothes her raw throat. She has to wonder where his supply of lemons comes from, given she hasn’t seen any mutant plants vaguely resembling citrus trees.

After that, she strikes another success.

Someone points her to the local shop and Kaelyn trots up the stairs, wiping her boots on the mat before stepping into the store. The walls are coated in an almost pristine wallpaper whose deep pink flowers brighten the room considerably. A fan draws lazy circles on the ceiling, mitigating the midday heat behind Kaelyn’s back.

Behind the counter beams a woman in an ironed green dress, whose smile is the brightest of all. “I’m glad I won’t have to mop the floor after you leave. You’d be amazed by how many people stomp right over the mat. Welcome! Everyone around here calls me Mrs Fitzgerald. But you, sweetie, can call me Penny.” This last part she directs at Danse, who followed her inside.

Danse just nods once, terse, and Kaelyn fights a sigh. If he’d just flirt back, this would be much easier. Instead she has to lean on the counter and make a show of oohing and aahing over the shop’s decor. “Nice to meet a friendly face out here.”

Penny smiles. “You’re in luck, then! Covenant is the friendliest place in all the Commonwealth. You’ll see. If you’re here to shop, I’ll show you our stock. From all across the Commonwealth, at the lowest prices!”

“You mind if I ask a few questions?”

Penny’s smile doesn’t slip, but there is a slight pause before she responds. “For you, certainly.”

Too much a pre-war detective, Valentine would usually jump straight into the case, but Kaelyn starts with innocent flattery. “Your town looks really nice. How’d you manage that?”

Penny’s shoulders relax. “Oh, thank you for noticing! Well, the men folk would say good old-fashioned elbow grease keeps Covenant the prettiest place in the Commonwealth. But between you and me, I’d say shrewd trading plays a part.”

The opening is too good to ignore. “You must see every caravan that passes through here. Do you know anything about the caravan that was killed not far from here?”

Penny’s plump red lips purse, and if not for her darting eyes it would be a convincing pout. “You’ve been talking to Mr Dan. He’s just stirring the pot if you ask me.”

Kaelyn shifts her weight from one foot to the other, casual. Asks innocently: “Why do you think he would he do that?”

“Some people are jealous when they see someone else leading a better life. And they’d like nothing more than to drag others down to their level. And Dan thinks he’s the one helping people. He wouldn’t know the first thing about making the Commonwealth a better place.”

“Those kinds of people are the worst,” Kaelyn agrees. “But Dan’s trying to catch a murderer and find a missing daughter.”

Penny’s face tightens, mostly around the eyes. “That’s only if you believe his story. Who knows when it comes to men like him? It’s no secret mercenaries are just a few steps away from raiders.”

Ignoring Danse’s disapproving gaze boring into the side of her head, Kaelyn smacks the counter. “He should be thankful you let him in.”

“Exactly! Instead he stomps around interrogating people. If the Compound did do something to his precious caravan, they had reasons for it. Better reasons than a man like him...” Her eyes widen as her brain catches up to her mouth.

Behind the counter, Kaelyn makes a gesture at Danse to keep his mouth shut. Blessedly, he obeys.

Penny stutters a laugh. “You know, honey, I was just shooting off at the mouth. Forget anything that I said about that. And the Compound. I have to go take inventory of my new stock.”

Rather than overstay their welcome, Kaelyn drags Danse outside.

They’ve barely crossed the threshold when Danse says, “Dan is our associate yet you insulted him to appeal to Mrs Fitzgerald.”

Blinking in the glare, she digs in her satchel for her glasses. “And it worked.”

“It’s underhanded.”

“What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents. Besides, one of us has to leverage our advantages. If you’d flirted back, I wouldn’t have had to step in.”

Danse blinks once. Twice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She isn’t sure what’s worse: the idea that he’s embarrassed or truly oblivious. They reach the tree where Honest Dan lounges. “Uh-huh. Anyway, that was still a win. This ‘they’ that Talia mentioned could be the Compound Penny let slip. What’s the bet this has something to do with their SAFE test?” This begs the next question: “Why are they so afraid of synths?”

“They’re right to fear synths,” Danse argues. “They’re abominations that should not exist, infiltrating human society to bring about its collapse from within.”

While Kaelyn resists the urge to roll her eyes, Honest Dan says, “Back to what we’re meant to be doing. If people around here know about this so-called Compound, then the mayor must, too. In fact, he probably knows more than everyone else. I’d say that’s our best bet to getting to the bottom of this.”

“He won’t be forthcoming with this information,” Danse points out.

“It’s our only lead, and you heard Penny.” Kaelyn drums her fingers against her thigh. “The mayor must have an office, right?”

—

As the only one with any tact, Kaelyn is the one to suss out the mayor and his office. She knocks on the open door, taking in the spacious room, and he looks up from his terminal.

“Well hello stranger. The name’s Jacob, and I run this town. Glad you passed the test. Our door’s always open to good quality people.”

She looks around as if admiring the place, and a flash of silver catches her attention. Handcuffs. There are handcuffs on his desk. “This place is incredible. I haven’t seen anything like it anywhere else in the Commonwealth.”

Next she notices the cell.

“Covenant is one-of-a-kind,” he agrees with a chuckle. “We’ve even got working electricity. I hope you enjoy your stay with us and spread the word.”

“Would you have a working ham radio I could borrow? I need to check in with my family. Raiders attacked me on the road and I’ve been pretty turned about, but I know I’m overdue back home.”

He puts on a sympathetic face. “Of course we have a radio you can use, for a fee.”

Kaelyn feels around for her caps stash and fumbles at empty air.

The raiders took all her caps. Dammit.

“I’ll be back with your money.” She wanders out of the mayor’s office and stands at the bottom of the stairs in this little post-war haven. Digs in her satchel just in case Spiked Boots left her caps somewhere. Then she searches for something she can sell, but everything in her bag is necessary for her survival right now.

But—she knows where she can get some things to sell.

Kaelyn finds the men leaning against the lone tree sharing some impressive scowls.

Dan asks, “Find anything in there?”

She drums her fingers on her thigh. “There’s a cell in there with some heavy security, and handcuffs on his desk. Maybe the mayor acts as a one-man police station? But if everyone here is supposed to be well behaved, why does he need one?”

“Just another thing wrong with this damn place,” Honest Dan growls.

“It’s more than that,” Danse says. “The cell must be seeing use, or they would have re-purposed it by now. Covenant has some connection to this Compound. If they’re accomplices in the kidnapping, it would explain the prison. Covenant acts as a staging ground to lure in targets who are then transferred to this Compound. We find the Compound, and we’ll likely find whatever is left of the caravan.” At Honest Dan’s raised eyebrow, he says, “Their likelihood of survival is not high.”

The prospect of having to tell another parent that his child is dead sits poorly. Come hell or high water, Kaelyn will do everything in her power to get Amelia out alive. “There’s also a terminal in the mayor’s office. If you two can make some sort of commotion tomorrow and keep him busy, I can hack the terminal and see what he knows about the Compound. Maybe even why they’re doing this.”

Over lunch—bought from the locals to keep them happy, with Dan’s caps—Kaelyn says, “I’m going back to the scene of the crime.”

“For what purpose?” Danse’s tone is harsh enough she can’t tell if he’s concerned for her or suspicious of her. Maybe he himself doesn’t know.

Kaelyn sure doesn’t.

“Right now, I don’t have a single cap on me. I don’t have anything to sell. But whoever took Amelia didn’t clear out the caravans. So...”

His lip peels back in distaste. “You’re resorting to common scavenging?”

“How is it ultimately any different to the Brotherhood’s usual MO? Out here, you scavenge from the dead. Doesn’t matter how long they’ve been dead for.”

Danse does not appreciate the comparison. Gritting his teeth, he snaps, “They’re nothing alike! Corpse robbing is a filthy business.”

“If it isn’t us, it’ll be someone else. There’s no point letting that equipment go to waste.” Stockton would no doubt charge her if he learns of what she takes, but he’d prefer an agent make use of his stock than raiders.

Even if Danse finds scavenging the caravan distasteful, he keeps watch while Kaelyn rummages through wicker baskets and steamer trunks for anything of use. Honest Dan has no such compunctions; he pockets anything that will fit in his pack or in his vest pockets.

Kaelyn re-enters Penny’s store with her brightest this-isn’t-awkward smile. “Pardon me, but I’m going to sell you these goods and then spend those caps at once.”

Penny returns with a forget-what-we-spoke-of-earlier smile. “Of course! Show me what you’ve got and we can come to a fair trade!”

Penny’s assessment of Kaelyn’s scavenged goods is rather low, but Kaelyn refrains from haggling to avoid alienating her, and also because the prices for what she wants to buy _are_ rock bottom. Their final deal leaves Kaelyn with three days’ worth of food, a new sleeping bag, more ammo for Deliverer, and medical supplies. Not to mention a pouch full of caps. If she’s careful, they’ll last her for the rest of her journey home.

In the receding afternoon Kaelyn forks over the caps for beds in the bunkhouse and investigates the place at once, Dan and Danse trumping in behind her. When she sees the beds with real, clean mattresses, she decides it’s worth every cap. The springs groan when she bounces on the bed, runs her hands along the crisp lemon-scented sheets. In the corner of the room there’s a privacy screen and a side table with a bowl of clean water. With no other travelers in residence, the three of them have their pick of beds.

Setting her rifles on the bed like a strange pair of lovers, Kaelyn grabs the bowl of water and slides her jacket off her shoulders. The leather sticks on her wrists and she fights a wince at the sting.

“What the hell is that?”

Kaelyn follows Danse’s gaze to her red-raw wrists. “That would be the result of having your hands tied.” Her voice sounds flat and distant and hollow, even to her own ears.

“They look infected. Why haven’t you done anything about that?”

Just when she thought he’d gotten over the judginess. “Raiders took my medical supplies. I only just bought more.”

“You should have said something. That could compromise you in combat.”

She doesn’t look up from dabbing the wet cloth over her wrist. Keeps her tone mild. “Hence why I’m seeing to it now.”

After cleaning them to the best of her ability, she injects a stimpak into the worst wrist and covers them with a pair of fingerless gloves she’s bought from Penny. Bandages would call too much attention to her injury. Then she washes her face and feet, tips out the water outside, and draws more from the pump by the steps for the next person who wants a bath. Thus refreshed, she hefts her caps pouch, excitement shooting through her at the prospect of hearing Nate’s voice again.

Brian Fitzgerald charges fifty caps for a single use of the radio. It’s a blatant rip-off, but the burning desire to know her family is safe prompts her to hand over the allotted amount.

That night Kaelyn has the immense satisfaction of sitting on a cushioned seat in front of a ham radio. The casing is a cheerful orange, sporting dings that hint at a storied history Covenant would rather forget. All that matters to Kaelyn, however, is that it picks up a signal. “This is Colonel Prescott. Come in Radio Freedom.”

It takes a few minutes for the monitor at the other end to pick up her call. “We hear you, Colonel Prescott. It’s good to hear your voice. Last we heard you were still missing. What do you need? Over.”

“I need to speak to my husband, Nate Prescott. If not him, then Nick Valentine, over.”

“That’s the synth, right? Over.”

“The detective, yes. Are they at the Castle? Is the General in? Over.”

“They aren’t. The General himself led one of the search parties. As far as I know, your husband and… friend are still searching. If you’ll hold, I’ll send a runner to check, over.” There are muffled voices, then the man turns back to the microphone. “Is there a message you want me to pass on to your family? Over.”

“I’m alive and well. At a settlement called Covenant. I need to finish some business here, then I’ll head to Bunker Hill and out to the Castle. And tell my husband I love him, over.”

The man clears his throat. “Will do, Colonel. If you—”

Shouts pierce the night—and sounds of a scuffle from the bunk house. Kaelyn’s head snaps up. “I need to go. Just pass the message on! Colonel Prescott out.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!
> 
> This chapter. This chapter just kept growing. I chopped it in half and it kept growing. Also, have I mentioned how hard it is to write two characters named Danse and Dan?

  
Kaelyn rushes into the bunkhouse to find Honest Dan threatening a settler, hand fisted in the man’s shirt. Pieces of a water jug litter the floor. Water drips from Honest Dan, plinking to the dark puddle staining the floorboards.  
  
“What’s going on here?”  
  
Danse hovers nearby, and from his position he’s probably using his bulk to intimidate the man. “This intruder entered uninvited and refused to leave.”  
  
The man in question glances back as far as he can to glimpse Kaelyn. “Please tell them to let me go!”  
  
She arches an eyebrow at Honest Dan. “He can’t leave when you’re holding him, can he?”  
  
Muttering something under his breath, Honest Dan releases him.  
  
The man backpedals to the door immediately. “I just came in to make sure you had fresh water and he accosted me!”  
  
It’s unlikely to be the full story, but she needs to smooth over what she can. “Please forgive my associates for their… paranoia. Outside Covenant it’s a dangerous world where you can’t trust good intentions.”  
  
“Right. I, uh, should go.” Straightening his shirt, the man all but bolts out the door.  
  
Kaelyn watches him go. “What did you two do to the poor man?”  
  
“He came in and started sniffing around your belongings,” Honest Dan says. He twists an arm to inspect the blossoming bruise on his forearm. “Told him to get lost, he made up some bullshit excuse, and threw the water jug at me when I stood up. The rest you saw.”  
  
“And you thought throwing him around was a good idea?”  
  
Honest Dan folds his arms across his broad chest. “Guy comes in here to poke around and I’m supposed to let him? I’ve been in this business long enough to know that you never let anyone near your gear. Guns mysteriously misfire that way.”  
  
He isn’t wrong, but that’s beside the point. “You could have ushered him out without causing a scene. If we keep burning bridges here we’ll never find Amelia.”  
  
Kaelyn mingles with the settlers for dinner, hoping to smooth over the latest faux pas, while her companions sulk in the bunkhouse. For all the townsfolk’s smiles and jokes, they shuffle in their chairs like birds that sense a fox slinking in the forest below. So she bows out early, pleading exhaustion, and no matter the smattering of protests, their relief is a palpable wave at her back when she leaves the dining hall.  
  
She’s barely stepped through the door when Honest Dan sits up, the bed springs groaning beneath him. He grimaces briefly, muttering about soft beds, then says, “Bet they’re still mad out there.”  
  
“My charm has its limits, I’m afraid.”  
  
He nods but doesn’t seem concerned. “We’ve been talking while you were out.”  
  
In her absence, Danse has decided on a watch schedule, and it doesn’t escape her notice that he claimed the worst shift—the midnight hours—for himself. Kaelyn’s watch isn’t until after his, so she can go to bed after their brief meeting.  
  
With a plan in place, they separate to their own beds. The mattress feels like one of heaven’s clouds brought to earth after her ordeal, and not even Covenant’s eerie atmosphere can keep her from sleep.

—

The next morning, they wait until a decent hour to cause trouble. Mostly because Kaelyn convinced Danse that sneaking around at night is suspicious, no ifs or buts about it. She hunkers in the bushes beside the mayor’s office. When Honest Dan makes a beeline for Jacob, Danse splitting off to corner Brian Fitzgerald, she switches on her stealth boy and creeps up the stairs. Residents edge onto the street to watch, but their attention is focused on the brewing altercation and not on a ripple in the air.  
  
Closing the door behind her, Kaelyn flicks off the stealth boy to conserve its charge and examines the office more thoroughly. A nearby shelf is populated with books that are not only intact but in decent condition.  
  
She runs her fingers along their spines. “Huh... _Dealing with Depression_ , _The Twelve Stages of Grief_ , some self-help books...”  
  
The first two would come in handy for Nate and herself. But the thought of checking for any books on dealing with the death of a child makes her chest seize up.  
  
Anyway. She has a job here.  
  
The terminal sports some impressive security, so Kaelyn pokes around the desk first. Atop the stack of papers is a manila folder labeled _SAFE_. Curiosity piqued, Kaelyn flicks it open.  
  
_SAFE v11.3 Report_  
  
_28% failure rate, delta -1% (need more data samples)_  
  
There’s a log of people, from unnamed travelers to Slog ghouls, listed as either failure or false positives. And at the end of the list:  
  
_Stockton caravan (5): two failures, resolved (RR or Inst?)_  
  
They know about the Railroad.  
  
Amelia herself isn’t an agent, but her father is one of their greatest assets.  
  
Disquieted, Kaelyn challenges the terminal’s security. She has to turn her back to the door to do so. The hairs on her neck rise and her ears strain to make out any noise outside. Time is measured by the beep of each incorrect password and sweat rolling down her neck. Her lessons with Valentine pay off when she strikes on the correct password in the lump of code.  
  
There’s a file on every resident in Covenant. Kaelyn skims through them, picking up notations on their jumpiness, and the key word ‘mission’. The Compound is mentioned several more times.  
  
A recent draft report holds the jackpot.  
  
The Stockton retrieval team was almost spotted by someone from the nearby neighborhood Mystic Pines, so we’ve assigned someone to loiter near the Compound’s entrance. A belligerent fisherman should ward off any curious passersby.  
  
Bingo.  
  
Kaelyn logs out and realizes it’s too quiet outside. Instinct has her switching on her stealth boy a moment before the stairs creak. Flattening herself against the wall, the lock of the cell door presses into her back as Jacob steps into the room.  
  
He wanders to his desk, takes off his hat and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. But in the heat, he neglects to shut the door. Kaelyn eases past him and slips outside, feet slow and pulse fast. She vaults over the balcony, landing quietly behind a bush, and glances around before switching off her stealth boy. She then follows the little dirt path from the water pump back to the street.  
  
Jacob rushes out of his office as she passes, and Kaelyn arches an eyebrow while her stomach ties itself in knots. “What’s the rush, Mayor?”  
  
“I hate to do this, but your associates proved too unruly for Covenant and were ejected from our community. Now I must ask that you also leave.”  
  
Relief would be an inappropriate reaction to his statement, so she remains outwardly impassive. “I understand. Please accept my apologies for the disruption we’ve caused here. I’ll get my things and go.”  
  
Jacob grabs her arm as she tries to step past him. “I understand that you and your mercenary friends have been asking questions about the missing caravan. You must know as well as I that the Commonwealth is unsafe, especially for caravans. Anything could have preyed on them.”  
  
Kaelyn gives him the blandest look she can muster. “A father is worried sick about his daughter. He deserves answers. If it were your family, what would you do?”  
  
He drops his hand, stung. “Anything could have taken that caravan. You won’t find answers here, I’m afraid.”  
  
It isn’t just the mayor’s eyes that track her as she collects her belongings and heads for the gates. All of them are watching. The heavy metal doors clang shut behind her with a note of finality. Kaelyn takes off after Danse and Honest Dan, who loiter some dozens of feet away.  
  
Danse looks up at her approach. “Report.”  
  
She’s going to ignore that she isn’t a soldier under his command, even if it pricks at her pride. “I got confirmation that the Compound took Amelia. They also stationed a fisherman near the Compound’s entrance to ward off strangers.”  
  
He looks past her to the lake. “Then we have enough intel to work with.”  
  
Honest Dan claps his hands. “We’re in business. Let’s rescue ourselves some caravan hands.”  
  
“After I recover my power armor,” Danse says.  
  
There’s only one problem: his armor is missing from the storage shed.  
  
He stops dead, eyes fixed on the empty spot where his suit used to be. Kaelyn fights a shiver at his thunderous expression, edging away from his aura of restrained violence.  
  
“They _stole_ my power armor.”  
  
Kaelyn circles the tiny room, seeking any clue of its whereabouts. “Power armor is big and bulky, which makes it difficult to be discreet. But our thief had ample opportunity while we were inside. At least the lack of power should have hindered them.”  
  
“Unless they had a fusion core of their own,” Danse scowls. “Covenant must have several to power their defenses.”  
  
“No question who took it,” Honest Dan says from where he leans against the doorway. “This place is too well-defended for scavvers to make off with something that valuable.”  
  
“Retrieving it must be our top priority.”  
  
Danse crouches by the spot his power armor vacated, searching for any clues. Rather than help, Kaelyn stays back. His movements are clipped, restrained, and its somehow worse than if he’d been throwing things at the walls.  
  
As they head out, Kaelyn ducks her head not just to avoid the fierce midday sun, but to seek tracks in the dirt. Thanks to power armor’s tremendous weight, she picks up a trail at a clump of squashed grass. From there the tracks lead into the road north of the settlement.  
  
She and Danse lead the way, slowly, struggling to spot clues. Honest Dan falls in behind her, watching for threats. Within minutes the fierce summer heat suffuses Kaelyn’s clothes, burns her hair, attacks her eyes, even protected as they are behind her patrolman glasses. Up ahead an overturned truck sprawls across the road, rusted and hulking.  
  
Kaelyn stills. Her mind skips back to another day, another quiet walk on the sand dunes. “I have a bad feeling—”  
  
A gun cracks.  
  
They scatter behind nearby cars. She glances down, notices a dart in her arm. Yanking it out of her jacket, she tosses it to the ground.  
  
“I count multiple hostiles!” Danse fires back, and someone screams from the truck.  
  
Kaelyn leans up to take a shot at the truck, but their foes remain focused on Danse. Even when Kaelyn disintegrates one guy with her laser musket. It also doesn’t take long to realize only three enemies have traditional guns. More tranquilizer darts litter the ground, pierce the car door.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, there’s a flash of orange. Danse slumps to the ground.  
  
Honest Dan swears. “You get to him, I’ll shoot anyone gunning for you!”  
  
Kaelyn glances around and spots a rusted bonnet. Ducking her head, she bolts from cover to cover, holding the bonnet as a shield. A rifle cracks and something pings off the metal. Followed by a volley of shots from Dan.  
  
Ignoring the rattling gunfire, Kaelyn drops beside Danse. Pressing two fingers to his neck, she finds a pulse. That’s enough for now. She listens for the lull between volleys, signaling that they’re reloading, then pops up to shoot at the one woman too slow to duck back into cover. It isn’t a killing blow, but she drops her rifle.  
  
There are only a couple left, including the injured woman.  
  
Careful not to trip over Danse, Kaelyn shifts position and peeks out. One foe leans around the truck bed and they both fire—  
  
The round whizzes straight through the car door, just past her ribs.  
  
Kaelyn drops to the ground, taking a moment to appreciate that the car offers no protection from bullets, then draws in a breath. Cranking her musket four times, the chamber glares an eager red. She takes aim. A head pops out of the driver’s cab and she fires.  
  
Silence.  
  
Kaelyn prowls toward the truck, wary of any last-ditch attack. No one shoots her from the ground. Checking the bodies is always a grim task, especially when they aren’t dead yet. A rattling gasp echoes from inside the truck, and she braces herself before climbing inside.  
  
The injured woman slumps in the dark, her torso a mess of red. She wears no armor, no gang colors.  
  
Kaelyn kicks her gun away and aims Deliverer at her chest. “Why did you attack us?”  
  
As she cocks her gun, the woman cracks a red-laced smile and breathes her last.  
  
Kaelyn looks to Honest Dan, who jerks his chin. “I’d say that’s the last of them.”  
  
Returning to the others, she crouches by Danse and checks his pulse again, this time counting the beats. He’d been hit with three darts in his shoulder, and his jumpsuit isn’t so thick it stopped them from delivering their payloads. She pulls them out and checks for any sign of what chems are now in his bloodstream. Not psycho, that much is clear.  
  
“Bad spot for a nap,” Honest Dan says.  
  
“Help me move him.”  
  
Between the two of them, they drag Danse to the cover off the side of the road. Whatever chems the attackers used aren’t strong, because he stirs as they settle him down in the shade. Kaelyn’s tempted to smack his cheek, if only to make a good story for Deacon, but startling soldiers never ends well.  
  
Shifting his weight, Danse cracks his eyes open with a low groan. “What happened?”  
  
“Someone had a syringer rifle loaded with tranquilizers,” Kaelyn answers.  
  
“No sign of who they’re working for, but I think we can take a guess,” Honest Dan says.  
  
Danse runs a hand over his face. “I’ll be fine. We need to find the Compound ASAP.”  
  
“Hold it, soldier boy.” Kaelyn presses a hand to his shoulder to stop him from sitting up. “You’re no good if you can’t see straight, let alone shoot straight.”  
  
Danse concedes with a grimace and takes the water canister she offers. They wait half an hour for the worst of the chems to work through his system. While Honest Dan checks the bodies, Kaelyn scans the clearing for power armor tracks. The fight churned the ground around the truck to a mess of loose grass and dirt, and she isn’t so skilled that she can pick up the trail again. “My best guess is they took your power armor back to the Compound.”  
  
Danse loads a fresh fusion cell in his rifle, barely wobbling as he stands. “Then that’s where we go.”  
  
They make their way around the bank of the lake, keeping an eye out for any sign of the Compound. The lake is a mirror of molten blue, amplifying the glare from the deep azure sky.  
  
About halfway around, Danse halts. “I have a visual on a man down by the sewerage pipes. Possibly the decoy to dissuade anyone from investigating further.”  
  
“Only person we’ve seen so far, so I’m willing to bet my caps on him,” Dan agrees.  
  
Kaelyn scans the area around the fisherman. Her gaze crawls up the bank, and in the shadow of the overpass rests a deserted building. “Then there has to be an entry around here somewhere.”  
  
The building in question turns out to be Mystic Pines Retirement Home. A string of Halloween decorations decorate the foyer, as aged and frail as the people who once lived here. They search the place but find only dusty bones and squeaky wheelchairs.  
  
Standing by the graveyard at the back of the building, watching the fisherman’s silhouette, Kaelyn asks, “You don’t think their base could be underwater?”  
  
“If it gets us out of this heat, fine by me.” Honest Dan switches his gun to his off hand to wipe the sweat from his palm.  
  
They retrace their path back down the hill, this time inspecting the sewerage pipes where the fisherman stands. Two collapsed skeletons rest on the concrete platform above the pipes that pump into the lake, one on a bench and the other in a wheelchair. Two rings glint from the pile of knuckle bones.  
  
The fisherman’s glare is as fierce as the sun; when they get within hearing range, he shouts, “Go find your own fishing spot!”  
  
Kaelyn plants her hands on her hips. “Firstly, there are no fish in that lake. Secondly, where’s your bait? Your lures? How can you cast your line far enough with that rod? How are you going to carry any fish you catch back home?”  
  
The old man puffs himself up and splutters. “Now listen here, lassie—”  
  
“She’s right,” Honest Dan interrupts. “So how about you clear outta here and come back another time?”  
  
The fisherman looks them over, seemingly taking in for the first time how heavily armed they are. His gaze lingers on Danse, easily the largest of the three. “Argh. You’ve already scared the fish with your racket, so no point in me stayin’.” He retreats up the hill to the nearby suburb.  
  
When he’s out of sight, Honest Dan raises an eyebrow. “Got a problem with fishing?”  
  
Kaelyn shakes her head. “My father-in-law was an enthusiast. It’s not that I’m offended; it’s that I know that man is lying.”  
  
She wonders what became of Heath and Evelyn and Nate’s brothers—and shies away from the thought.  
  
With the fisherman out of the way, that only leaves the problem of where exactly the entrance is and how to find it. Since the hulking rusted pipes can easily hold a human, that’s where they look first. Sludge and detritus floats in the water around the pipes, making it an uninviting prospect.  
  
Danse goes first, lowering himself from the top of the pipe into the sludge that rests at the bottom. “There’s a door at the back of the pipe. This must be the Compound.”  
  
Honest Dan spots Kaelyn as she follows with less grace; even if Wasteland living has toned her soft lawyer’s body, she can’t lift her own body weight. As she’s descending, she spots a flash of white. On the side of the concrete platform above the entrance pipe is a railsign.  
  
_Danger_.  
  
If the Railroad knows of this place and its sick mission, why has nobody infiltrated it and brought it down? Although Kaelyn remembers the wide berth the smuggling routes gave this area. More than could be explained by the Switchboard, in hindsight.  
  
Danse grabs her by the waist before she tumbles into the water, then assists Dan down as well.  
  
“We need to be careful,” she murmurs.  
  
“No shit,” Honest Dan says. That earns him a scowl from Danse.  
  
Danse assumes the lead, to which Kaelyn and Honest Dan shrug and follow. Ahead, a section of the pipe has been cut out, allowing harsh light to pierce the dark. In the distance is the tell-tale chugging of a machine gun turret.  
  
The three of them share a look and ready their weapons.  
  
“Try talking first,” Kaelyn whispers.  
  
“Likelihood of success is slim,” Danse whispers back.  
  
“Still worth trying.”  
  
That shuts him up, but Honest Dan holds out an arm to block her from slipping past him.  
  
“Let’s be smart about this,” he says. “They aren’t going to just let us walk in armed and get Amelia.”  
  
She knows that. But she also knows she’s tired of the blood. “That doesn’t mean—”  
  
He holds up a hand. “But you. You’re a sneaky one. We go in, make our demands. You follow under their radar.” He taps her stealth boy at her hip. “When shit goes south, bail us out before bullets start flying.”  
  
Her stealth boy has only half its charge left.  
  
Kaelyn considers—and nods.  
  
Danse maintains his lead as they step into the room. Kaelyn waits in the tunnel, trying to visualize the room from the echoes of their footsteps.  
  
“Hold it right there,” a masculine voice growls. “I wondered if you’d make it here, but if you’re smart you’d turn around and leave.”  
  
Honest Dan says, “All I want is to find Stockton’s people. This doesn’t have to get messy.”  
  
Now that they’re distracted, Kaelyn drops to one knee and carefully peers around the doorway. Blinking away afterimages from the sudden light, it takes another moment for her to notice the turret locked onto the men. The cave is by no means natural; a ramp has been grafted into the rock, leading up to a platform where three men lounge near a spotlight. She counts three more lurking in the shadows around the cavern.  
  
“If you don’t cooperate, it will end badly for you,” Danse growls. “You’ve stolen Brotherhood property. I recommend you return it at once.”  
  
One of the guards asks, “Manny, is that…?”  
  
“Yeah, looks like.” The leader’s gaze turns sly, calculating. “You know what? Sure, I can take you to Doc Chambers.”  
  
Something about this is off. Kaelyn glances between Danse and the guards, wondering what caused the abrupt about-face. That’s not how intimidation is supposed to work.  
  
Danse narrows his eyes but gestures with his rifle. “Lead on.”  
  
“Wait here a sec. Gotta let the boss know we’ve got guests.” But as Manny turns, he surveys the room, and his gaze briefly falls on the other guards.  
  
The guards share nods between them, and a woman steps forward with a brisk efficiency. “If you’ll disarm, we’ll mind your weapons while—”  
  
“Not a chance,” Danse growls. “You already stole my power armor, and I don’t trust your sudden goodwill.”  
  
From the terminal beside the door, Manny glances back. But his gaze skips straight past Danse to the guard over his shoulder, out of his line of sight. Manny nods once, just a sharp jut of his chin.  
  
Kaelyn covers her mouth to stifle her cry of warning.  
  
The two guards standing in the corners, out of the men’s view, raise their rifles and fire.  
  
Honest Dan manages to pull the dart out of his neck before he topples forward. Danse lunges sideways to snap up the nearest guard in his powerful grip. The rifles bark again and Danse falls to his knees. At least his grip is so tight they have to pry the unlucky woman from his stranglehold.  
  
Manny watches the whole thing dispassionately. He jerks his chin. “Pack ’em up. Parson, let the docs know about their newest toys.”  
  
The guards cuff Danse and Honest Dan, then heave them to their feet. Watching their captors struggle and swear as they drag away two burly men would be amusing if not for Kaelyn’s churning gut. One of the guards, slender under his ill-fitting chest piece, doesn’t even try to help. Instead he plods up the stairs to Manny and they briefly talk. Manny claps him on the shoulder with a proud smile, then turns his attention back to their captives as they’re dragged inside.  
  
Manny scans the room one last time, then the security gate clangs shut behind him.  
  
Silence.  
  
Kaelyn counts to a hundred in her head, then peers around the room. The only remaining defense is the turret, which softly chugs on its rails.IIts biometric scanners won’t be fooled by her stealth boy won’t fool it. And if it fires, someone will investigate.  
  
So she has to take it out, and fast.  
  
Her laser musket is quieter than her sniper rifle, so she switches weapons. Positioning herself on the ground, she peers around the door frame, slowly, to not attract attention. The turret chugs away, its sensors not calibrated to scan her spot. Putting her eye to the scope, she waits for the perfect shot.  
  
When the barrel points toward the wall, she fires. The laser melts the outer housing and jams the barrel in place. A second shot finishes it off.  
  
Kaelyn edges into the room, avoiding the harsh spotlights that paint white circles on the ground. Keeping an eye on the door, she tries to map a safe path to the security terminal. No such luck: she has to cross through the center of the room where there’s no cover whatsoever.  
  
She drags in a breath and speeds across the brightly-lit territory. On impulse, she collects the darts littering the ground as she passes. Eyes on the door, she makes it to the shadows on the side without any guards inconveniently arriving. The terminal is locked, of course.  
  
Two minutes later, the security door swings inward with a moan.  
  
The corridor stretches like the spine of a whale, flickering lights and large pipes distorting its shape and sending eerie shadows across the rock. Kaelyn prowls down the hall, searching for any sign of where the men were taken.  
  
The lights die, briefly, then there’s a silhouette moving at the end of the corridor. Kaelyn darts behind the nearest pipe that stands like a pillar. Listens.  
  
Boots scuff on the rock, unhurried. “Hate those lights. Too easy to see things that aren’t there.”  
  
Kaelyn presses back against the wall, feeling the cold ooze through her jacket. She tries not to breathe.  
  
The footsteps are twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten. She glances around for a better hiding place but there’s nothing. As the footsteps get louder she holds her breath.  
  
The guard steps into her line of sight. He’s looking forward, pipe pistol held loose by his side. He looks no more than eighteen.  
  
He takes two steps past her, oblivious. Then on some impulse, he glances around.  
  
Their eyes meet.  
  
“What the—”  
  
Kaelyn jabs him in his exposed neck with the tranquilizer dart. His eyes widen, yell dying in his throat, and he slumps forward. she catches him as he falls against her, staggering under his weight.  
  
Now she needs somewhere to put him. Dammit.  
  
Huffing and swearing under her breath, she drags him down the hall. She stops every few feet to listen for nearby guards, but there’s only the sound of dripping water.  
  
At the bend in the corridor, she peers around the corner. It’s empty. The guard in her arms gurgles, and she shifts him into a chokehold. It makes dragging him even harder, but she can keep him under control if he wakes. Doors line the walls, and she carefully peers through the first window grate. Inside there’s only a steel table and some shelves along the wall.  
  
She tries the door. It’s equipped with a simple deadbolt—on the outside.  
  
Opening the door, the smell hits her like a punch. While the table is spotless, blood has soaked into the ground around it, so dark it’s black in the dim light. Her eyes dart to the tool cabinet and she tries not to gag.  
  
Memories of another cage, another set of bloodstains, swim across her mind. Kaelyn digs her nails into her own shoulder, forcing herself back to the present.  
  
On the far side of the room is a cell. Perfect. Kaelyn drags her prisoner inside and jabs him with another dart, praying it isn’t potent enough to overdose him. He looks so young, so vulnerable. When she shuts the cell door, the clang echoes off the stone, crawls down her spine.  
  
She has to lean on the table and breathe deeply. _Later. You can break later. Now you have to save the others from what happened to you._  
  
When Kaelyn turns back to the door, she notices a set of blinds above the window. Why it’s there, she isn’t sure she wants to know. As she’s about to draw the blinds, there’s movement in the hall. She ducks under the window as a lone man passes by. She gives it two minutes, then shuts the blinds and eases back into the corridor. Locking the door, she prays that will be enough to hold her prisoner.  
  
Back in the corridor, she realizes she has no clue where the men are. Cocking her head, she hears nothing. All she can do is check every door. Each window is a grim portrait lining the hall of a haunted mansion, offering a glimpse into a distorted world of glinting steel and pooling shadows and drying blood.  
  
Kaelyn glances in the next window to see Honest Dan and Danse, tied to chairs. They’re groggy, but awake. A man stands over them, his silhouette backlit by the dangling light bulb. Nobody guards the door.  
  
Whoever’s running this place, they’re not professionals.  
  
Honest Dan’s mouth moves, and the man backhands him.  
  
At least it saves her from having to wake them up herself, with the added bonus of distracting the interrogator. Kaelyn carefully pushes down the door handle. It doesn’t squeak, perhaps silent from the atrocities that have been committed in here.  
  
The room is built for what polite pre-war society would call interrogation: there’s a tray near the interrogator’s elbow, an altar laden with instruments for suffering. A few paces way there’s an garage diagnostic cart, its wires coiled like black snakes. And, of course, the patterns of blood speak for the people who never made it out alive.  
  
“Where’s the woman you were with?”  
  
Honest Dan smirks. His gaze remains fixed on his interrogator. “Been with a lot of women. Not that you’d know anything about—”  
  
Kaelyn holds back her sigh until she’s standing right behind the interrogator. “I’m right here.”  
  
He whirls to find Deliverer pointed at his face. “What—”  
  
“Quiet.” Kaelyn snaps. “Move away from them. Now.”  
  
She can see herself reflected in his wide eyes. Blue. His eyes are blue. It’s not a detail she’s ever noticed about anyone she’s pulled a gun on before. He’s young, like the other lad, with a nasty scar along his jaw. This is the one who spoke with Manny earlier.  
  
He glances between her and his prisoners. One hand strays to his hip. “Now just wait a minute—”  
  
“Touch a weapon and I’ll shoot you. See the suppressor? Nobody will hear it. Nobody will save you.”  
  
His throat bobs as he swallows, and he holds his hands up. “Okay. Fine. Just— okay. Don’t shoot, okay?”  
  
Without taking her eyes off him, she moves to Danse’s side. Risking a glance down, she checks the handcuffs. “Key. Where is it?”  
  
Her grip on Deliverer tightens when he puts a hand in his pocket.  
  
“I’m just grabbing it, I swear.” A glint of silver between his fingers confirms that he withdrew the key ring and not a secret weapon.  
  
“Throw them to me.” She has to briefly lower her gun to catch it, and tries each key in the lock with one hand while aiming at the interrogator with the other.  
  
Danse keeps perfectly still for her until the key twists and there’s a tiny click. Then he shrugs out of the handcuffs, shooting to his feet, and claims Deliverer. After a moment of resistance, Kaelyn lets him take it so she can free Honest Dan.  
  
The boy shrinks down even further under the twin glares of his former prisoners.  
  
“I vote we tie him up,” Honest Dan rumbles.  
  
Kaelyn holds up one hand. “Who’s in charge here?”  
  
“Dr Chambers,” he squeaks. “This is all her vision, I swear!”  
  
“And where is she now?”  
  
“In her lab.” He licks his lips, growing increasingly nervous under Kaelyn’s stern look. “I can, uh, show you the way?”  
  
Kaelyn beams as if nobody’s pointing a gun at him. “That would be great, thank you.”  
  
If anything, her courtesy unnerves him even more.  
  
The men reclaim their gear from the nearby cupboard, unlocked with Kaelyn’s new key ring, then they’re off again. Honest Dan gets the satisfaction of putting the lad in an arm lock and pressing his pistol to his back. Kaelyn keeps close by their side as he leads them down ramp after ramp, through tunnels that lead so deep into the earth that the irradiated water smell is replaced with cold rock—something she’s only ever smelled in a vault. The lights are cold white, and despite the crude construction, it reminds her of the Institute.  
  
Through the labyrinthine tunnels, they finally reach an open chamber that’s been renovated into a laboratory. Surgical implements glimmer under the harsh lights, their untarnished silver eerie against the maroon spots that dot the floor around a nearby lab bench. At the back of the room are a number of cells, but it’s too dark to see past the bars.  
  
An old woman, cast in shades of white and gray, sits at a desk with her back turned.  
  
Kaelyn nudges their captive. He clears his throat. “Dr Chambers, I, uh…”  
  
“Do you have the preliminary results from our latest—” she glances up, then. For a half-second she stares with her mouth open, jowls hanging. Then with great dignity, she purses her lips and rises from behind her desk. “How did you get in here?”  
  
She recovered quickly. Kaelyn files that piece of information away. “Through the front door.”  
  
Somehow, Chambers’ mouth thins even more. “Don’t be smart with me, child. Where is my retrieval team? What did you do with them?”  
  
“We haven’t bumped into too many of your people since we got insi— oh.” Kaelyn pauses a moment for effect. “You mean the ambush after we left Covenant? I have some bad news for you.”  
  
Honest Dan cuts in with, “Now why don’t you tell us where Stockton’s girl is before anyone else gets hurt.”  
  
Despite her composure, her hands are balled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. “Did you even know that his supposed daughter is in all likelihood a synth?”  
  
Behind her, Danse thunders, “She’s a _synth?_ _”_  
  
“Why else do you think we attacked her caravan? According to the SAFE test, she has an over seventy percent chance of being a synth. I’d have to perform an autopsy to be sure.”  
  
For several moments, Kaelyn can only gape, struggling to process her words.  
  
Honest Dan steps past her. “Autopsy? Not on my watch, lady. You’re gonna let Amelia go, alive, or we’re gonna have a problem of the lethal variety.”  
  
“You’re remarkably generous to an automaton.” Her gaze skips past him to Danse, and she tilts her head. “Perhaps because you’re so-called soldier is also a synth? His test results suggest he too is an Institute plant.”  
  
The silence in the wake of her words isn’t dead. No, it’s a living, writhing thing where water drips and metal groans. Dust motes squirm under the lights, trying to escape its scrutiny. Danse’s jumpsuit creaks as he stiffens, eyes blown wide in horror. His mouth is a thin line of white.  
  
Kaelyn laughs. She tries not to, she really does. A synth in the Brotherhood? Who worked his way up the ranks to paladin? No plant could get promoted that quickly, and someone of Danse’s capabilities would be difficult to replace. “We’re not here to volunteer as test subjects. Amelia—where is she?”  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Danse stares at her.  
  
Chambers shakes her head with a smile better suited to an arrogant neighbor than an amoral scientist. “I’ve dedicated my life to to devising a test that can distinguish synth from human so the Institute can no longer control us from the shadows. So we can root out every synth in our midst and exterminate them. Medically, there is no way to distinguish synth from human. But psychologically, we can detect a difference. Enter the SAFE test. While it is still in the early stages, with perseverance and sacrifice, our success rate is improving.”  
  
Kaelyn scoffs. “Not from the numbers I saw.”  
  
“There is a correlation. We simply need more data, more subjects to analyze.”  
  
“Correlation isn’t causation. Three quarters of the people your test flags as synths—the people you proceed to torture and murder—are humans or ghouls. Your evidence is flimsy.”  
  
Chambers draws herself up to her full height, red spots appearing on her cheeks. “What would you do if your family was destroyed by a synth, right in front of you, when you were but a child? Would you roll over and accept it? Or would you do something about it?”  
  
_That_ makes Kaelyn angrier than she has a right to be. “When it was my family, I avenged them by burning the Institute to the ground. I didn’t torture innocents! Don’t lecture me about the Institute’s abuses, because I know what they’re capable of as well as you do!”  
  
“Then you should understand that discovering the synths hidden among us is the means to defeating the Institute!”  
  
Kaelyn laughs. She doesn’t mean to, but in the wake of her five-month campaign to rescue her son it pricks at her. A Commonwealth that will never know her sacrifice, indeed. “You should have fixed your attention on the Institute itself, not their pawns. That might have made a difference. Synths aren’t the heart of the problem. They’re just tools.” She sweeps an arm out to encompass the room, the cells, all of it. “But this? Kidnapping, torture and murder? From where I’m standing, there’s no difference between you and the Institute.”  
  
She reels as if Kaelyn had pistol whipped her. “How _dare_ —”  
  
“Oh, I dare.” Incensed now, she takes a step forward. “The Institute kidnapped my son for their sick experiments. You took Stockton’s daughter to torture in the name of scientific progress. It’s the same damn excuse the Institute used. _No more!_ ”  
  
Chambers’ hands curl into claws. “Casualties are inevitable. It may not look like it, but we’re at war.”  
  
Kaelyn flings an arm out in Boston’s approximate direction. “Did you miss the CIT explosion? The Institute is _gone._ I made sure of that! The war is over. But not because of anything _you_ ever did.”  
  
Chambers’ upper lip peels back. “You’ve been in Covenant. It is a refuge for the people left broken in the wake of the Institute’s rampages! A place of safety. Healing. I rebuild what the Institute tore down!”  
  
The books on grief. The mayor’s reaction to her jab.  
  
Honest Dan snorts. “That what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”  
  
“I will not be lectured on ethics by a two-cap mercenary!”  
  
“And I won’t be lectured on the greater good by a torturer,” Kaelyn retorts.  
  
Danse holds up a fist, half-turning to the corridor behind them. Only then does Kaelyn hear the unmistakeable thunk of power armor.  
  
“Help! The subjects escaped!”  
  
Danse overturns the nearest table and half-crouches behind it, rifle trained on the door. Honest Dan yanks his hostage in front of him while Kaelyn pulls a gun on Chambers. She aims Deliverer at the pristine white vee of the doctor’s shirt under her lab coat.  
  
Danse’s X-01 suit clunks into view, holding a minigun in one hand. “All of you drop your weapons and back up!” Manny’s voice.  
  
“Don’t,” Danse barks, then turns back to Manny. “If you shoot us, you’ll kill your people too.”  
  
“Wanna bet?” Manny raises the minigun.  
  
Danse snorts. “Miniguns are useful only if you want to eliminate an entire room. We have two of your people hostage. You’ll kill your master if you initiate hostilities.”  
  
“Which,” Kaelyn slides in, “you don’t have to do. You have a choice here. Today doesn’t have to end in bloodshed.”  
  
“No? Then why are you holding guns on Doc Chambers and Diego?”  
  
“You’re running a torture program down here, and you held my friends prisoner. We’re not taking chances.”  
  
“I’ve got no reason to believe you,” Manny spits.  
  
Kaelyn pauses to pick her next words with care. “Maybe you’re not tired of the blood, but I am. I don’t kill if I don’t have to.”  
  
Even masked by power armor, it’s clear her words don’t land.  
  
Chambers scoffs quietly. “And that’s why you’re too weak to see what needs to be done.”  
  
Kaelyn bites back a retort about blowing up the Commonwealth’s largest lab as her gaze falls on Diego. She remembers that moment between him and Manny. Remembers Spiked Boots. “Hey, Diego. Have I hurt you? Have I let my associates hurt you?”  
  
White-faced and sweaty, he shakes his head.  
  
“Didn’t I say you’d make it out of this alive if you brought us to Dr Chambers?”  
  
He nods vigorously.  
  
“Diego, have you ever seen a minigun fire before?”  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
“If Manny wants to shoot me or Danse, you’re probably going to be hit. If he wants Honest Dan, he has to go through you. And if he drops the minigun and charges us, all we have to do is keep you and Chambers in front of us.”  
  
This time the silence is dead. Even the walls hold their breath.  
  
Kaelyn says, “So you can gamble that I’m as good as my word, or you can die. How much is your cause worth to you?”  
  
“Did you… did you really blow up the Institute?”  
  
With the clammy air pressing down on her, she remembers holding her son as he died. “They’re gone.”  
  
“Out of the power armor,” Danse says. “Now.”  
  
Manny twitches hard enough that the suit’s sensors pick it up. The suit jerks, but he doesn’t move.  
  
In the silence, Diego’s small voice echoes. “Please, Manny. I don’t want to die.”  
  
Kaelyn jumps on it. “And you don’t have to. None of you do, if Manny makes the right choice.”  
  
Chambers remains silent. A muscle in her jaw twitches.  
  
Again, Manny doesn’t move. The minigun doesn’t waver. Then the power armor splits open and he steps out.  
  
Danse all but throws him to the ground as he passes by and jumps into his suit. The moment it closes around him, they’ve won.  
  
Manny crosses the room to Chambers’ side, putting himself between her and Kaelyn. “All right. You won. Let us walk.”  
  
Kaelyn looks past him to meet Chambers’ glower. “Get out. _Now._ Don’t go back to Covenant. If you start this research up again anywhere else, I will do to you what I did to the Institute. Got it?”  
  
Chambers turns to her desk and Kaelyn cocks Deliverer. “Don’t even think about it. You don’t take a single paper of research with you.”  
  
Honest Dan sidles to her side but keeps his gaze on Manny. “You think this is a good idea?”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t bother to keep her voice lowered. “I don’t know. But I’m tired of Wasteland justice. She doesn’t have to die. She just has to _stop_.”  
  
Under their watchful gaze, Dr Chambers gathers her fellow scientists and guards and commands them to follow her. Manny and several others shoot them wayward looks and resentful scowls, and more than one slips a finger past the trigger guard.  
  
“We can take ’em,” one mutters.  
  
Kaelyn snorts. “If any one of you shoot even one bullet, you get to deal with him.” She nods to Danse, encased in his power armor. He lifts the minigun in a silent threat. “Leave and live, or die here. Your choice.”  
  
Threatening violence doesn’t soothe any resentment, but they at least have a realistic assessment of their chances against power armor. Kaelyn directs them to the guard she left in the cell, and they take him with them. When the door clangs shut and the Compound falls into silence, Kaelyn wastes no time returning to the holding cells.  
  
“What if she _is_ a synth?” Danse asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken since being accused of being one himself. His helmet hides his expression.  
  
Honest Dan sighs. “If even after all they’ve done to her they can’t tell if she’s a synth or not, I figure she’s human enough.”  
  
Danse doesn’t answer.  
  
Huh. Kaelyn expected him to argue the point. No matter. A whimper from one of the cells reminds her what she should be doing, and she peers into the cells, one by one. Fights a shiver as she senses the ghosts that scream and beg.  
  
_Please_ _—_  
  
Kaelyn sucks in a sharp breath, willing the memory away. _Not yet._  
  
In the back of the cell at the top of the stairs is a bundle of white flesh in a tattered shirt. It cringes at the click of the lock.  
  
Kaelyn takes a careful step inside. “Amelia? Is that you?”  
  
“I’m not a synth, I swear!”  
  
The cry lances through her chest, cutting through bone to stab the soft flesh of her heart. Another step puts her halfway between the cell door and Amelia, who squirms to tuck herself more firmly in her corner. Kaelyn crouches down to put them on eye level. She considers and discards several possible responses, and settles on the only one that will calm Amelia down. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter if you are or you aren’t.”  
  
It hurts, a dull throb somewhere behind the protection of her breastbone, to see Amelia reduced to this. Amelia, who escaped the Institute only to stay with Old Man Stockton. Who was adopted as his daughter when she showed a spark for trading and a desire to ease the burden of the man who’d helped so many of her kind.  
  
Amelia whimpers, but the arm covering her face shifts. Dull, bloodshot eyes peer up at Kaelyn.  
  
“Remember me?” Aware of the two men behind her, watching her every movement, she adds, “I ran a few jobs for your father a while back.”  
  
Those eyes blink, focus on her and for the first time Amelia sees her. “Kaelyn?”  
  
Now thankful she gave Danse her real name, she nods. “That’s right. Your dad hired somebody to find you. I volunteered to help. How about we get you out of here?”  
  
Kaelyn holds out her hand. Amelia looks at it, uncomprehending, so Kaelyn settles in for a wait. When it clicks, Amelia brushes past her hand to wrap her skinny, bruised arms around Kaelyn’s neck and bury her head in her shoulder. Kaelyn rests one tentative hand on her back, expecting the flinch.  
  
“Shh. It’s okay now. They aren’t going to hurt you anymore.” Kaelyn keeps up in this vein, murmuring reassurances and stroking Amelia’s greasy hair until she settles. “Can you stand?” She braces to support Amelia’s weight, but she’s light. Too light. Kaelyn looks her over, counting every bruise that mottles her skin. Every cut. Every burn. “All right, step one is not to get you out of here. Step one is to find you some clothes.”  
  
Kaelyn stays with Amelia while Danse searches for clothes and Honest Dan keeps guard. She’d almost prefer if the men had switched roles, to keep the Brotherhood paladin in view and not have free reign to poke around the research. Since there’s no way to protest without drawing suspicion, she keeps her focus on Amelia.  
  
The girl shies away when Danse marches up the ramp to hand over clothes several sizes too big. He retreats without a word, standing by the cell door and turning his back while Kaelyn helps Amelia dress.  
  
Only when they’re ready to leave does he speak. “What of the research? It could potentially be viable.”  
  
While Honest Dan shakes his head in disgust and Amelia clings to her side, Kaelyn hesitates. Her first impulse is to burn it—and yet. It feels wrong to waste all the blood that has been spilled for this. “Lock it up, for the moment. It’s possible that in the right hands, something good might yet come of it.”  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Honest Dan says.  
  
“Once you’ve committed to the nuclear option, you can’t take it back. We can always burn it later, but once it’s gone—it’s gone.” Kaelyn clears her throat and looks to the trembling girl under her arm. “We have a more pressing issue right now, anyway.”

—

Night has tiptoed over the Commonwealth and thrown the land into true darkness by the time they return to the surface. Amelia’s in no state to travel, so they range only as far as necessary for Danse to proclaim them safe, taking shelter in the woods near a bubbling tributary that runs into the lake. If not for the men, Kaelyn could have sought out Mercer Safehouse to get Amelia some proper food and rest, protocol be damned. Alas, they have to make do with a tiny clearing.  
  
Amelia flinches at every noise above a whisper, so Kaelyn lives up to her Railroad alias and stays as quiet as she can. This time she coaxes Amelia into accepting a stimpak, even if Amelia insists on administering it herself. Her face scrunches up as she works up the nerve to stab the needle into her thigh.  
  
Then Kaelyn leads her to the creek to clean up, and despite the darkness, Amelia notices the sores around Kaelyn’s wrists; they match the marks on her own.  
  
“How did you…?” Realizing she spoke aloud, she snaps her mouth shut.  
  
“That’s not important right now. You are. How are you?”  
  
A heartbeat later, Amelia buries her face in Kaelyn’s shoulder. “I knew the risks when I chose to stay with my father, but this… I’d almost prefer the Institute. They weren’t like that.”  
  
Kaelyn kisses the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Amelia. We’ll do everything we can to make the Commonwealth safe for you.”  
  
They return to the campsite dripping and shivering. After coaxing Amelia into getting some sleep, Kaelyn lingers nearby. It’s not because she doesn’t trust the men—Honest Dan is loyal to his paycheck and Danse doesn’t know Amelia is actually a synth—but because just a few days ago, this was _her_. Still is, when it comes to the prospect of sleep. She can’t stop Amelia’s dreams any more than she can stop her own, but she can be there when the girl wakes.  
  
Besides, it means _she_ doesn’t have to sleep.  
  
“You all right with looking after Amelia?” Dan asks. “She seems most comfortable with you.”  
  
“Sure. Have you thought about how we’re getting her back to Bunker Hill?”  
  
“That power armor’s gonna help a lot. I was first thinking of avoiding the trade routes, taking the back way to Bunker, but with three of us I’m feeling better about our chances of keeping her safe. We go east and cross the river at the bridge just north of Bunker Hill. If we’re lucky, Kessler’s boys will be guarding it.”  
  
The continual wars to control Tobin Memorial Bridge are legendary. Deacon has reenacted a few for HQ’s benefit when he comes bearing intel for Dez and gossip for everyone else cooped up in the undercroft. Kaelyn’s been fortunate that she’s only had to fight on that bridge a handful of times.  
  
Honest Dan is lying on his back, snoring softly, when Danse marches to the spot where Kaelyn leans against a tree. Since being reunited with his power armor, he hasn’t left it save for removing his helmet. Craning her neck, she wishes he’d sit down, but holds her tongue lest she reveal how uncomfortable she is. Either he’s oblivious, or he’s doing it on purpose. “Something you needed?”  
  
“What those doctors did—”  
  
Best nip that line of thought in the bud. “It shouldn’t matter if she’s human or synth. Nobody deserves to be tortured like that. Nobody.”  
  
“Your compassion may be commendable in another situation, but it is dangerously misguided to mistake machines for human. They aren’t, and they never will be.” He grits his teeth at that, like it hurts to admit.  
  
Biting back the urge to bang her head against the tree—even if it may be a more productive use of her time—Kaelyn instead tries another tactic. “When you look at her, what do you see?”  
  
Under Danse’s heavy gaze, Amelia twitches and mumbles in her sleep, tugging Kaelyn’s blanket more tightly over her shoulders.  
  
“I see someone who shouldn’t have suffered that.” Voice soft. Seemingly realizing what he just said, he rushes to amend, “You could be harboring a synth in your midst and you don’t even know. Or appear to care. This concerns me.”  
  
“The Institute was destroyed. Whatever remnants survived no longer have the means to produce more synths. But that isn’t the reason why there won’t be a synth apocalypse, no matter what your Elder Maxson said. It isn’t going to happen because they aren’t a united group baying for human blood. You know what might convince them to band together and hate humans? Humans hating them on principle. Synths were the Institute’s victims as much as anyone else.”  
  
Danse has a moment of incredulous silence. Then, “Your foolishness is going to get you killed. I only pray the rest of humanity won’t pay the price with you.”  
  
Harry, with his mop of unruly hair, flashes across her mind’s eye. As does Z1-14. Glory. “A little humanity can go a long way. Something we’ve all forgotten.”  
  
Danse has a moment of pensive silence. Then he says, “Anyway, this is a tangent. I wished to speak to you about something else.”  
  
If that was a tangent, she isn’t sure she wants to know what he wants to say. Kaelyn settles more comfortably against the tree trunk. “Shoot.”  
  
“You know a great deal about the Institute. Too much.”  
  
Should’ve seen that one coming, she supposes. “If you have an accusation to make, speak plainly.” Meeting his suspicious gaze, she says, “I’ll tell you what I told Chambers. The Institute murdered my neighbors and kidnapped my son. I did everything I could to get him back.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
Kaelyn tries to swallow around the lump in her throat, the stone in her chest. “No. So I did the next best thing.”  
  
“You were involved in the Institute’s destruction at CIT?”  
  
She flashes a vicious smile. “I’m a woman of many talents. Does that satisfy, Paladin?”  
  
He twitches at the title. Kaelyn almost feels guilty at using his rank to distract him, but it works. “That will suffice. All the Brotherhood’s might, and a vengeful mother does what we— they couldn’t.” He shakes his head, incredulous. “But then, after the Capital Wasteland, perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised. Vault dwellers possess an absurd luck.”  
  
There’s a story behind that, she’s sure. Deacon once mentioned he’d been to the Capital Wasteland; she can ask him later.  
  
The trip to Bunker Hill is thankfully uneventful, besides the nightmares. Amelia wakes screaming every night, but her embarrassment is mitigated by the fact she isn’t the only one suffering from the things that lurk in dreams. No one ever says anything. Kaelyn spends her nights counting the jars in her satchel, one-two-three. Everything would be a waste if they’re lost.  
  
They reach Bunker Hill at midday, when a steady current of caravans and travelers flow into the trading outpost, seeking shade from the fierce Commonwealth sun.  
  
Amelia sucks in a breath of air laden with the aroma of sweat, lies and brahmin dung. She blinks rapidly, warding off tears. “I never thought I’d be home again.”  
  
Kessler waves them through without a question when she spies Amelia. “Your father will be glad to see you, sweetie.”  
  
They navigate to the crowded marketplace and Honest Dan steps up to the counter. “Found your daughter.”  
  
White-faced and trembling, Old Man Stockton pushes out of his chair and rounds the counter. Amelia throws her arms around him as he reaches for her. Over Amelia’s shoulder, his gaze skips to Danse, then to Kaelyn.  
  
Stockton pulls back to rest his gnarled hands on Amelia’s shoulders. “Are you all right, my girl? What happened?”  
  
“I’m fine,” she says, despite the dark marks under her eyes proclaiming otherwise.  
  
With a request that the three of them wait by his stall, Stockton ushers Amelia away to their shack—one of the grandest dwellings in Bunker Hill, thanks to Stockton’s prominence. On his return, he shuffles behind the counter and settles back in his chair with a weary sigh. “Thank you. All of you. I can’t tell you how glad I am for her safe return. Now, I expect you’re here for your reward.”  
  
He hands out a generous stack of caps to each of them; when it’s Kaelyn’s turn, he grips her wrist for a moment longer than strictly necessary. She tries not to flinch at the pressure.  
  
Hefting the weight of the caps pouch, Honest Dan nods. “My work here’s done.”  
  
Kaelyn half-entertains the idea of making a break for it while Honest Dan and Danse are around, so Stockton can’t catch her alone. But no. She needs to speak to him, and there’s only one way to signal that. “Don’t suppose you still have any Geiger counters for sale?”  
  
Before Stockton can answer, Danse butts in. “Why would you need it? Your pip-boy should be equipped with one.”  
  
“I think it’s broken,” she says smoothly, “so I want a second opinion on its readouts. Better safe than sorry, right?”  
  
“Fortunately for you I just got a new stock in,” Stockton says. “They’re still in storage. I need to take care of my daughter, but if you come by at closing time we can find something for you.”  
  
Kaelyn never thought she’d see a second day where Stockton closed his business early—the only other occasion being the Battle of Bunker Hill.  
  
With their business concluded, the trio separates. Before he investigates the bar, Honest Dan holds out his hand to Kaelyn. “Appreciate you talking to those hicks at Covenant.”  
  
She shakes his hand. “It’s been good working with you.”  
  
He also shakes Danse’s hand before pushing through the crowd. That leaves Kaelyn and Danse to stand awkwardly in the marketplace. He surveys the stalls of the Commonwealth’s largest trading outpost as it bustles with activity: the shouts of merchants marketing their wares, brahmin braying in the distance. The smell of manure and sweat wafts on the breeze.  
  
“I was a merchant once,” he says, more to himself than to her.  
  
Despite knowing that soldiers come from all walks of life, held a variety of roles before and after their service, she still can’t picture Danse as anything other than a stern paladin.  
  
“If you can’t go back to the Brotherhood, what’s stopping you from taking up shop again? Merchants who can defend themselves—we need more of those.” If he’s always been this tall, he mustn’t have had much problem with thieves.  
  
A frown shoves his eyebrows together. “I joined the Brotherhood to achieve something greater than that.”  
  
“There’s always the Minutemen.”  
  
Danse snorts. “Whatever the Minutemen’s good intentions, they lack discipline.”  
  
He isn’t wrong, but something about his dismissive judgment stings. “Suit yourself. The next leg of my travel takes me to the Castle, so this is where we part ways. Good luck, Danse.” She hesitates, then offers her hand.  
  
Danse likewise pauses before shaking it.  
  
Kaelyn spends the next hour browsing and haggling for the supplies she’ll need for the home stretch to the Castle, then ducks down to the food court for lunch. Brahmin steak sandwiches are dry but cool, which is a must in today’s heat. She eats as many as she can stomach, and if there’s one good thing about a reduced appetite after being starved, it’s that she doesn’t have to spend as many caps on an overpriced lunch.  
  
After that, she wanders to the top of the obelisk to look out the hole in the bricks and enjoy the breeze while she waits for sundown. At the appointed time, she creeps down to Stockton’s cellar and takes a seat by the lantern. Holding her hands as close to the glass as she can manage, she soaks up its little bubble of cheery warmth. The trapdoor clatters and Stockton descends the ladder with a grace that belies his age.  
  
“How’s Amelia?”  
  
“I’ve convinced her to let a doctor see her, and I’m searching for someone to help with her mental state. It won’t be easy, but she’s alive. I can’t thank you enough.”  
  
Kaelyn holds up her hands. “You know I couldn’t turn my back on her. For a number of reasons.”  
  
“Of course.” He settles into a seat and pins her with his shrewd blue eyes. “Amelia won’t tell me anything about what happened, so I’m asking you.”  
  
“Covenant was a honey trap to entice people to stop by. Their entry test isn’t to keep out ‘undesirables’ but attempts to determine who is and isn’t a synth. Anyone who failed, they’d kidnap and send to the Compound for further… testing.”  
  
Old Man Stockton is no fool. His mouth tightens into a thin, white line and his loose jowls tremble with rage. “I need to alert HQ of this at once. I take it they are no longer operational thanks to your efforts?”  
  
“I chased out the scientists, yes, but HQ should assign agents to bag up that research before anyone else gets their hands on it. It won’t be long before Covenant investigates.”  
  
“And what of that Brotherhood soldier who was with you? What was he doing with you, where he could be a threat to Amelia?”  
  
“If he’d even looked in her direction, I’d have killed him. No, it’s… a long story. I couldn’t get rid of him without attracting suspicion, but we’ve parted ways.”  
  
“Then I hope he won’t linger in Bunker Hill. We can’t afford any delays now in the package transfers.”  
  
“I doubt he’ll stay. From what I saw, he was stocking up on supplies to keep traveling.” There’s nothing more to say, so Kaelyn ignores Stockton’s narrow-eyed look that reminds her of the work the Railroad has yet to do. The work she walked away from. “Look after Amelia, okay?”  
  
He heaves a sigh. “We’ve a long road ahead of us.”  
  
Truer words were never spoken.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks for ScorpioSkies for being my Danse Whisperer!

Old Man Stockton pulls strings to let Kaelyn stay in the bunkhouse without charge. For one night. This suits her just fine; she only rests to chase away gray flickers of exhaustion. Something huffs near her ear and she wakes, every nerve singing _Dogmeat_. But even in the predawn, she quickly realizes it’s just someone snoring nearby.  
  
Collapsing back into her sleeping bag, Kaelyn throws an arm over her eyes. Her back is a mass of pain from the rickety floorboards, her throat is thick from lead-lined grief, and her chest is heavy from the phantom terrors of the past week. Tears prick her eyes and her breath hitches.  
  
Hot moisture rolls down her cheeks to her ears, dampening the crook of her elbow where she hides, wanting nothing more than to curl in a ball and succumb.  
  
Instead, a loud snore nearby reminds her it isn’t safe.  
  
Just a little longer. She just has to hold on a little longer.  
  
Kaelyn sets out in the early hours of the morning. She barely makes it to the gates before she’s waylaid. One Paladin Danse loiters near the obelisk, as surreptitious as a mirelurk in a bowling alley. Clad in his power armor, he’s impossible to ignore, and the weary guards on duty periodically spare him a glare. When Danse notices her, he makes a beeline for her.  
  
Despite Kaelyn’s lingering exhaustion, she knows trouble when she sees it. Especially when she has to tilt her head back to look up at him, which makes a sore muscle in her neck twinge. “Something you needed, Danse? I’d rather get going.”  
  
“That’s what I wish to discuss with you.” He straightens his shoulders, frowns down at her. “You’re still recovering from your experiences and require an escort.”  
  
Kaelyn pulls back, fighting a scoff. “I don’t _require_ anything. Contrary to popular belief, I know how to survive out here.”  
  
“And it’s nothing short of a miracle, given your sympathy towards synths,” he shoots back.  
  
Her fingers twitch at her sides, wanting to pinch the bridge of her nose. “They’re not going to drop out of the sky and attack me before I reach the Castle—”  
  
In her mind’s eye, she sees the coursers at Sunshine Tidings.  
  
Well.  
  
Even without his power armor, Danse is a formidable foe—not to mention spoiling for a fight with synths. With it, he’d be a nigh unstoppable escort. If she trusts him to guard her back.  
  
“So you’re just going to chaperon me to the Castle then be on your way?”  
  
Danse’s power armor frame shudders in a way that suggests he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot. His gaze drifts past her shoulder, to the marketplace behind her. “I— have nowhere else to go. There’s no reason to remain here.”  
  
And oh, how Kaelyn wishes she isn’t the reason his sisters and brothers are dead. As much as she wants to say no, to be the good little Railroad agent, her mouth doesn’t get the memo. “Come on, then. Day’s wasting.”  
  
If her voice is husky, well, she’s just tired.  
  
For a half second Danse just stares at her, then collects himself. “Of course. I am not familiar with the route to the Castle, so lead on, civilian.”  
  
“I have one condition: don’t ever call me ‘civilian’ again.”  
  
Danse clears his throat. “Accepted.”  
  
The streets are quiet as they navigate south, making the pterodactyl screech of skyscrapers resonate in their bones. It’s still unsettling to have Danse travelling with her, when her instincts associate power armor with the Brotherhood and she has to fight the urge to glance over her shoulder. In the city, his power armor forces them to navigate around nooks and back alleys she’s used to taking, and his usual M.O. seems to be ‘walk in the middle of the street and make a target of yourself’. Which, to be fair, works when you’re equipped with the most powerful series of power armor known to humankind.  
  
Feeling an itch at the back of her neck, Kaelyn checks the windows that watch like so many gray eyes. Empty, save for jagged rows of glass-teeth. Nerves singing, she gives in to the urge to glance over her shoulder.  
  
Danse hasn’t replaced his helmet, and he’s watching her.  
  
That explains it. “Something on your mind?”  
  
Danse blinks. “How could you tell?”  
  
“You keep staring at me.”  
  
At least he looks mildly embarrassed. “Oh.”  
  
When he doesn’t say anything more, she scans the road again. Faded banners flutter at the end of the street, catching her attention, and then drawn to the cherry red of a Nuka-Cola advertisement that’s spattered with salt stains. Kaelyn clambers over debris on the sidewalk to avoid the puddle in the middle of the street, while Danse just sidesteps the sports car bumper-deep in tea-brown water.  
  
Passing the entrance to an alley, Kaelyn startles at motion in her peripheral vision. At the other end of the alley, a plywood and barbed wire wall marks the entrance to raider territory—and the guards are scrambling to their feet.  
  
When Danse stomps into view, they freeze. Then they back away slowly.  
  
Kaelyn smacks Danse’s elbow to stop him from shooting. “Not today. We have places to be.”  
  
“I’d be doing the Commonwealth a favor if I purged them,” Danse mutters. But when he glances down at her, something in her countenance convinces him to leave them be.  
  
After they round the corner, he finally blurts, “How can you not care if someone is a synth?”  
  
Because this is _exactly_ what she needs right now. Kaelyn fights a sigh. “Because they’re people. None of them chose to be made. None of them chose to be weapons for the Institute.”  
  
Instead of an immediate retort, Danse takes a few moments to consider her words. If Kaelyn were more awake, she’d be suspicious. Then: “And yet they _are_ weapons. The Institute replaced countless humans with machine copies, to destroy u— to destroy from within.”  
  
“None of the infiltrators chose who they’d replace.” Roger Warwick appears before her mind’s eye. She digs her nails into her palms.  
  
Danse scans the horizon, pensive as he mulls it over. “Even if that were true, it doesn’t change the fact a human died so a machine spy could take their place.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t.” Roger’s blood is on her hands, even if she didn’t fire the shot that killed him. “But killing them won’t bring back the originals. They’re long gone.”  
  
How many of them wander the Commonwealth as super mutants, turned over to the FEV project after every detail of their life had been milked from them?  
  
“And yet, you somehow have faith in these… machines.” His expression twists on the last word like he swallowed something bitter.  
  
“Faith is an apt word.”  
  
“Explain.” Even if his eyes are dark, something akin to curiosity sparks in their depths.  
  
Kaelyn spreads her arms to encompass the city. “Look at what we did, Danse. Humans have already made a mess of the earth. Synths are made in our image, from our DNA.” In her case, literally. “Humanity is capable of great and terrible things. Synths can’t be any worse than what we already are.”  
  
“How do you know they’re made from human DNA?”  
  
Uh oh.  
  
A fog has descended on her brain, blanketing the landscape of her thoughts, and she tries to claw past it to clarity. “Well, they’re, uh, they look like us. Cut them and they’ll bleed red. They’re clearly not mechanical.”  
  
Danse snorts softly, retreating back into his own thoughts for another minute. “Surely you’ve heard of the Broken Mask incident? A synth was ordered to Diamond City, and once it had gained the citizens’ trust, it turned hostile and mowed them down. The Institute could have installed some sort of… override switch to turn them berserk. You could invite a synth into your midst, but how can you be so confident that it wouldn’t attack you if the Institute ordered it to?”  
  
“Because that’s not how recall codes work,” Kaelyn answers mildly.  
  
Danse goes white. “There _is_ some kind of kill switch?”  
  
Uh oh.  
  
While he’s struck dumb, she starts moving again. A quiet instinct sings to put as much distance between them as possible. Her mind jumps into overdrive, trying to consider every possible outcome of her slip. He can’t report it back to the Brotherhood remnants, and there’s no way for him to get his hands on a recall code. Those went up in flames with the SRB.  
  
After several seconds his power armor clunks behind her. He checks the street for threats, rifle cradled to his chest, but something lurks behind his eyes.  
  
If it means the conversation’s over, she doesn’t mind. Instead, she picks up the pace. The salty breeze teases her, reminds her how close the Castle is.  
  
She’s picking her way across the debris-clogged street when Danse’s voice whips out behind her. “How could you possibly know about—”  
  
A bark echoes off the brick buildings. Kaelyn freezes in the middle of a puddle, despite the saltwater that’s seeping into her boots. Every nerve in her body sings, suddenly alert. She casts about for the source of the bark, hoping, fearing, praying.  
  
“Dogmeat?” Her shout echoes down the street.  
  
More barks, growing closer. Kaelyn breaks out into a run, splashing through the street-cum-wading pool. A brown blur climbs over a debris pile and almost trips racing down the other side.  
  
“Dogmeat!”  
  
The German shepherd shakes himself out at the bottom and rushes to her. They meet halfway, her laughter mingling with his joyous barks. She braces for his weight as he rears up to plant his paws on her shoulders, yet still staggers under the weight of muscle and excitement. His tail wags so hard his whole body shakes, happy little whimpers whistling through his nose as he licks as much of her face he can reach.  
  
“You’re okay, you’re okay, I was so worried…” She cups his head, scratches him behind the ears, kisses the wrinkles on his brow.  
  
“Kaelyn?”  
  
Her head snaps up. “Nate?”  
  
Her response is met with a whoop and nearby splashing. A group of people emerge from a nearby street—and Nate’s in the lead. He sweeps her into a hug, arms tightening around her waist to lift her off the ground and spin her around. Dogmeat dances around them, splashing water everywhere.  
  
Nate lowers Kaelyn to the ground and rests his forehead against hers. Under the shadow of his brow, his eyes shine with more than joy. When he swoops down to kiss her, it’s as frantic as Dogmeat’s, with just as much tongue.  
  
When they part for air, he whispers, “I was so worried.”  
  
“Did you get my radio message?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s why we’re here instead of halfway across the Commonwealth—”  
  
“I’m sorry, Nate. I didn’t mean to do this to you—”  
  
“Woah, woah. Hold it right there. I know you didn’t.”  
  
Kaelyn sniffles and tightens her arms around his neck. At last, it’s over. Amelia’s safe, and she’s come full circle. She leans against him in boneless relief, feeling her emotions spill like an overfull glass that’s been bumped.  
  
Nate runs a hand up and down her spine. “I’m here, honey. I’m here.”  
  
She just has to be strong until they’re behind the Castle’s walls.  
  
“Well, well. Maybe Dogmeat should be an official associate of the agency, eh?”  
  
Kaelyn untangles herself from Nate to launch herself at Valentine. He catches her with a laugh, his mechanical hand curling around the back of her neck.  
  
This close, she can hear the tick in his chest, the burr in his vocalizer, as he says, “I’m glad you’re in one piece, partner.”  
  
“I’m glad to _be_ in one piece.”  
  
There’s a strangled noise nearby.  
  
Kaelyn glances over her shoulder to see Danse red-faced and staring at her. Or, more accurately, at the steel hand on her neck. Drawing back, slow and reluctant, she clears her throat. “Nate, Nick, this is Danse. Danse, my husband Nate and my friend Nick Valentine.”  
  
Nate takes a half-step forward, but Danse and Valentine are too busy eying each other off. “Uh, nice to meet you?”  
  
Danse’s grip tightens on his rifle. “What is _that_ doing here?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Let me be clear: you make one move on Nick, and you’re gone.”  
  
His lip curls, eyes narrowed. “I see now where your sympathy for synths lies.”  
  
He isn't exactly wrong. Valentine was the first she met, and the first she learned to care about. Still, his derision gets her hackles up. “So you’ll see why I’ll shoot you if you hurt him.”  
  
Valentine drawls, “No need to pull out the big guns just yet. But do tell where you picked your newest stray. He's not your usual type.”  
  
Danse flushes, either at being addressed by a synth or being referred to as a ‘stray’.  
  
Right now, Kaelyn can only shake her head. “It’s a long story.”  
  
Nate hovers nearby, the joy in his face fading like clouds drifting across the sun. “What happened? The squad said you separated from them, and no one saw you since. When they went to Warwick Homestead they only found Dogmeat, and he led them to a fresh battle ground. Raiders attacked you?”  
  
Kaelyn nods; doesn’t meet his eyes. “I escaped and got caught up in a mess at Covenant. I’m sorry for worrying you.”  
  
That startles a short laugh out of him. He leans in to trace the slope of her cheek. “I’m just glad I found you.” Nate ducks his head to kiss her cheek and recoils with a grimace. “Ugh. Dog slobber.”  
  
He still tucks her under his arm and steers her back the way he came, but she pauses when she realizes Danse is still standing there, watching.  
  
Turning back to Danse, Kaelyn says, “Well, you can go if you want.”  
  
He shakes his head. “I said I would escort you back to the Castle, and I intend to follow through.”  
  
“Suit yourself.”  
  
When they head out, Kaelyn briefly touches Valentine’s shoulder in mute apology. He pats her hand with a tiny smile.  
  
Their triumphant return to the Castle involves no trumpets, just a tired sentry waving them in. Preston himself appears at the top of the stairs and rushes down to wrap her in another hug, and it’s all the welcome she needs.  
  
“I’m glad you’re okay.” He claps her on the back before letting go. “Who’ve you got with you? Rare to see power armor like that.”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Preston, this is Danse. Danse, this is Preston Garvey, Minutemen General.”  
  
“Nice to meet you. I take it you helped Kaelyn get home in one piece?”  
  
“I assisted, yes. I humbly request permission to enlist with the Minutemen.”  
  
“If you’re willing to take up a rifle for the people of the Commonwealth, you’re welcome. We could always use another pair of hands. I can show you the Castle, if you like.”  
  
Kaelyn raises an eyebrow at it all. So much for simply escorting her to the Castle. Her train of thought is interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn that momentarily blanks her mind.  
  
Preston rakes her over with a critical eye. “We’ll talk more after you’ve gotten some rest? You look like you’re about to fall over.”  
  
It isn’t an inaccurate assessment. Nate ushers her to Curie in the infirmary. Kaelyn is privately thankful Curie and the resident doctor, a woman who only goes by the name Cassidy, shoo him out before seeing to Kaelyn’s lingering injuries. Peeling off her gloves is a painful task. Her wrists have stopped oozing but are still red and tender, and Curie tuts at the sight of them. Kaelyn refuses any bandages, not wanting to call attention to the marks. Her other scrapes and bruises are seen to, then they give her antibiotics for the infection and send her on her way.  
  
Stepping into her quarters should be a momentous occasion, but she only feels tired. While it isn’t cluttered, it is unkempt—and as Nate kicks aside a pair of trousers, muttering about having more important things on his mind, she understands why. Kaelyn perches on the edge of the bed and digs her fingers into the mattress, scarcely believing the luxurious feel of familiar sheets, feeling the aches from every night she slept in a cage. She should take off her boots or disarm, but all of a sudden any movement feels like an overwhelming task.  
  
Fighting a shudder, Kaelyn checks the door, the window, the corners. She’s waiting for moment it clicks that she’s home. But all she feels is a wary expectation that some new threat is lurking nearby. It’s hard to focus, exhaustion bogging her down, but she has to. Everything she had to shove aside to rescue Amelia rears its hydra heads, demanding attention.  
  
After the Institute, she’d just collapsed in bed, but this time she can’t stop thinking. Can’t return to that blessed numbness.  
  
All she can do is keep breathing, and that becomes a task in itself as the weight of realization crushes her.  
  
She could have _died_. Could have been sold. Killed by Gunners. Captured and tortured by the Compound.  
  
So many ways to die. Fewer ways to live.  
  
“You okay?” Nate crouches in front of her, resting his hands on her knees—and withdrawing them when she flinches.  
  
“I… it’s just hitting me now.”  
  
“How about a clean up? I didn’t want to mention anything earlier, but you kind of need one.”  
  
She shakes her head. Doesn’t feel safe.  
  
No amount of coaxing can change her mind. Nate briefly ducks his head, then draws in a breath through his nose. “All right. But _I’m_ going to take a nice bath.”  
  
And he does just that, shucking his clothes to rinse down with the washbasin. For all that he affects nonchalance, tension lingers in the curve of his spine. A part of her squirms at seeing him so easily vulnerable, while another wants to pick up a gun and guard the door while he’s exposed. But Nate’s motions draw her eye, strangely magnetizing, and it stirs the familiar ache in her chest.  
  
She missed, him and now she’s sitting here while he’s just out of reach.  
  
Kaelyn pads behind him on soft feet. Peering around his shoulder, she catches his attention.  
  
Nate smiles at her as if nothing is wrong. “Hey. You ready to wash, or are you just here for the show?”  
  
She backs up a step and he returns to his bath. His muscles flex as he twists to wash his back, and she claims the washer to scrub his shoulders. Nate hums in appreciation and relaxes under her ministrations, leaning on the wash stand.  
  
With some coaxing, Kaelyn strips out of her jacket and trousers. When it comes to her shirt, she fumbles with the top button and finds herself clutching the fabric closed at her throat. Something in her brain that insists she can’t be weak, can’t expose all parts of herself, her hurt and her fear, to him. Can’t show the worst of the bruises to him. Nate makes a noise low in his throat when he sees her wrists, but smooths his expression when she glances up at him.  
  
She washes as best she can without removing her shirt. Between the warm water and rhythmic motions, a fugue descends on her. Next time she blinks, she’s sitting on the bed again, not entirely sure how she made it back here, and Nate crouches on the ground in front of her to inspect her wrists.  
  
Kaelyn tries to pull her hand back but his fingers tighten around hers, his thumb resting in the center of her palm, just enough to keep her in place. He twists her forearm this way and that.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Nate slows his motions. “You will be. But it’s okay if you aren’t right now.”  
  
She can’t— she’s going to break, and it’ll be his fault.  
  
Sensing her imminent breakdown, Nate slides her satchel out of kicking range and hops up on the bed beside her. When Kaelyn leans into him, he wraps his arms around her and shifts to lean back against the headboard. Bundled against his chest, she rests her head in the crook of his shoulder. Her fingers slide under the collar of his shirt, hooking a finger under the chain around his neck. She clutches his dog tags, relishing the metallic bite against her palm. Their heft is familiar, soothing the frayed edges of her nerves as she trembles.  
  
Exhaustion is the only reason she sleeps. Nightmares chase her back into wakefulness, but Nate is beside her.

—

Everyone has questions, even if they don’t voice them. Preston and Valentine check in the next day and Kaelyn explains the basics of her latest misadventure while Nate sits beside her, holding her hand in a white-knuckled grip. He doesn’t interrupt, staring at the floor while he attempts to school his expression. The pucker between his brows, the hard line of his mouth; these give him away. When she reaches the part of her escape and subsequent encounter with Danse, she relaxes into the retelling. Preston tenses at the mention of Gunners, while Valentine takes a grim interest in the Stockton case.  
  
Most importantly, Kaelyn sets her satchel on the table and draws out container after container of seeds, all unbroken, each brimming with the potential for life. Mission successful.  
  
Having been black-bagged, she can only point to the general area on the map where she was attacked, and her best guess of where the raiders’ hideout is.  
  
“We’ll send a team to scour the area,” Preston promises. “No raider is getting away with kidnapping a friend. Not on my watch.”  
  
“Might volunteer for that team,” Nate says. He’s as grim as she’s ever seen him, but something lurks in his face that resonates with the vengeful knot in her heart.  
  
She shakes her head. “I need you here.”  
  
That pulls him up short. Preston and Valentine take their leave soon after. When the door clicks shut she wraps her arms around Nate and buries her head in his chest. He kisses the top of her head, runs his hands down her back, tells her he loves her. He doesn’t promise not to go. Leading her to the bed, they settle together in a tangle of limbs—and fur, when Dogmeat climbs over Nate to curl against Kaelyn’s side.  
  
Despite being the middle of the day, all Kaelyn wants to do is lie in bed. She isn’t sure she wants to know why Nate is so experienced at handling this.  
  
She thrashes awake with screams in her ears and fear in her heart. The back of her throat is coated with rust. The hot, cloying smell is thick in her nose.  
  
“Hey, hey!”  
  
She knows that voice. “Nate?”  
  
That’s when she realizes she’s in bed, on a proper mattress, tangled in the sheets with her husband. The cocoon of blankets that trap her are scratchy and sweaty, pinning her arm against her ribs where her heart kicks like a frightened rabbit.  
  
“It’s okay,” Nate croons. “You’re not there anymore.” He helps untangle her from the sheets, and when she can breathe against he lies down beside her. He strokes her cheek, whispers, “What happened to you?”  
  
“I told you.”  
  
“You did, but not everything.”  
  
How can she tell him how that poor man’s screams echoed off the walls? How can she tell him an innocent man is dead because of her?  
  
Drawing her knees up to her chest, she says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
There’s a soft exhale beside her. “Okay. But when you’re ready, I’m here.”  
  
Nate’s understanding is too much. Jumping off the bed, Kaelyn makes some excuse to leave; he lets her go without a fight. In that moment, she loves him more than she ever has, and it’s a strange sensation given she’s running away from him.  
  
Word has spread by now that the Minutemen’s missing colonel has been found, and a number of people approach her to welcome her back. Again with the questions, and the delicate handling. It’s in the eyes, mostly: curiosity mingles with pity like a wave dampening the shore. They look at her and wonder. Enough disappearances end unhappily that a triumphant return is a noteworthy event—and sometimes a suspicious one. But if her own husband can’t coax any answers out of her, strangers don’t have a hope.  
  
In the training yard, Ronnie is filling in for Nate, monitoring all the recruits—including Danse. Kaelyn watches the training yard, able to spot Danse not only because he’s twice the size of scrawny farmers, but because even from this distance it’s clear his movements are precise, practiced. Despite the Minutemen’s mantra or ‘all are welcome’, this haven has been invaded by a Brotherhood soldier, former or no. She can only pray he never finds the synths who’ve joined.  
  
Kaelyn retreats to the armory to clean her gear. For the hour, the place is surprisingly empty—there are only a pair of women arguing how to repair a laser musket, a man on the far side of the room fiddling with some mechanical contraption, and a trio on punishment duty cleaning equipment. Dogmeat sits at her heels, nosing her knee or licking her fingers when she cringes at loud noises. On one such occasion, she jumps at nearby clang. Dogmeat nuzzles her leg, and after she’s given him a pat he scampers across the room to greet Valentine.  
  
“Sorry, partner,” he says by way of greeting. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.”  
  
The armory was quiet before, with everyone minding their own business, but now an inquisitive silence descends. Rather than provide any gossip fodder, Kaelyn waves Valentine off, her smile painted on with a fine-tipped brush, and packs up her equipment. Nate’s voice echoes across the courtyard—acting as drillmaster again, from the sound of it—so she returns to their quarters to dump her gear.  
  
As a storied detective with two lifetimes of cumulative experience, Valentine has an excellent sense of timing. He waits until they’re in her room, away from any listening ears, to ask, “If you’re ready for it, I had a coupla more questions.”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t look up as she drums her fingers on the mattress. “Did Nate put you up to this?”  
  
“No. He isn’t the only one who wants to get to the bottom of this, you know. If raiders are bold enough to take a high-up Minuteman to ransom her back, we have a problem. A big one.”  
  
Despite herself, she says, “That’s not it. It wasn’t for ransom.”  
  
“Then what was it?”  
  
The prospect of confessing to Valentine isn’t any easier—and yet.  
  
he takes a careful step forward and rests a hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch this time. “You don’t have to tell anyone else. You can tell me.”  
  
“There was— another prisoner. A settler, I think. They didn’t have enough room so they— they— finished him off. Put me in his cell.” Kaelyn looks away, hands clenched into fists. “I can still hear him screaming. When it’s quiet.”  
  
Valentine curses under his breath. “What those monsters did isn’t on you. They killed that fellow, not you.”  
  
She nods but says nothing.  
  
He sighs, a barely audible huff of breath at odds with his synthetic construction. He squeezes her hands. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, doll. I promise. I know it’s hard, but I’ve got a few more questions.”  
  
Of course he does. After a moment of thought she pats the space beside her and Valentine accepts the offer. His presence—helps. The whirr of his internal mechanics, audible in the quiet, remind her where she is. “All right. Go ahead.”  
  
“To get a timeline of events: you were on your way back from Warwick Homestead when raiders attacked you?”  
  
Kaelyn nods. “They black-bagged me and took me to their hideout. Some of them wanted to drag me when I couldn’t keep up but—” she draws in a breath, “their leader said they’d only get paid if I was in decent condition.”  
  
“So they were slavers?”  
  
“I don’t think so. From the way they talked, it’s like they were paid to kidnap me.”  
  
Valentine cocks his head. “Did they mention who hired them?”  
  
Kaelyn shakes her head. “Only that I had to be alive and in one piece. They mentioned the buyer would be coming to pick me up in a few days, but I escaped. Didn’t feel like sticking around to find out who the client was.”  
  
“And when you escaped, you didn’t see anything that could pin down where their hideout is?”  
  
These are the same questions he asked yesterday, reworded. Kaelyn isn’t sure what to make of that.  
  
She pulls up her pip-boy. “I was blindfolded on the way out as well, so I’m not sure.” At Valentine’s raised eyebrow—or what would be a raised eyebrow if he possessed eyebrows—she explains, “One of the raiders had a change of heart and helped me escape.” More to herself than him, she murmurs, “I hope they didn’t kill her as punishment.”  
  
Valentine gives her a long look. “If she was a raider, her hands are hardly clean.”  
  
“That’s—she wasn’t that bad, Nick.”  
  
He remains skeptical. “Raider with a heart of gold, eh? Funny, ’cause I’d figure that not kidnapping ya in the first place meets the bare minimum of human decency.”  
  
“If I’d been more careful, or fought harder, I might have freed myself sooner. I just—couldn’t think.”  
  
“That’s the idea,” Valentine says. “Kidnappers need to terrorize their victims into compliance.”  
  
Kaelyn scoffs, low and hard. “I watched a nuclear bomb detonate. I braved the Glowing Sea. I hunted down Kellogg to find my son and avenge my husband. I let Tinker Tom zap me in a home-made teleporter. But a few raiders force a bag over my head and that’s too much for me?”  
  
“’S about opportunity as much as anything else. In your list of incredible feats, you had some sort of power. Not so once those raiders overwhelmed ya. Don’t fall into the trap of believing your own hype. You’re as human as the rest of us… present company excluded, of course.”  
  
“Nick, you’re more human than half the people in the Wasteland. Doesn’t matter if you’re missing a few red blood cells.”  
  
He chuckles once at the reference. “Guess not.” Valentine rests a hand on her hair, lightly so as to not get it tangled in his skeletal joints. “First two coursers are given a hit job on you, and now there’s a bounty on your head? Either it’s rotten timing, or they’re related.”  
  
“The Institute never hired raiders to do their dirty work.”  
  
“They never had to leave their underground bubble, either. It’s not their usual MO, but I ain’t ruling anything out yet. I’ll do some digging, see if I can uncover the raiders’ client.”  
  
She clutches his coat. “Nick. Be careful, all right?”  
  
“I will, partner. Don’t you worry.”  
  
She twists in her seat to thread her fingers together over his shoulder and press her forehead into his arm.  
  
“Do you want me to fetch your man?”  
  
She nods, nose brushing against the rough fabric of his coat. It smells. No wonder Ellie frequently reminds him to do his laundry.  
  
“All right. Hold tight and I’ll be back. Dogmeat, stay with her.”  
  
Nate finds her curled up in a corner, knees up, head bowed, hands laced over the back of her neck. Sliding down the wall beside her, he drapes an arm around her shoulders. “Hey there.”  
  
Leaning into his side, she draws in a deep breath of sunshine and sweat. Fresh from the training yard, clearly. Safely ensconced in his arms, a little impulse flits in the back of her mind. When he covers her hand with his own, she realizes she’s been drumming her fingers against his knee.  
  
“I’d say penny for your thoughts, but your thoughts are worth more than that.”  
  
Flatterer. After telling Valentine, a man for whom justice is his occupation, and for him to find her not guilty—well. It’s easier this time to tell the story. The bruise on her heart aches harder than the one on her kidney. But Nate only draws her more firmly against him, aghast, silent but for the little reassurances he offers her.  
  
“It’s not your fault, not any of it. One person versus multiple opponents? Never good odds. And once they had you tied up—” his expression slips for the briefest moment, betraying his distress, “—there was nothing you could do. They’d have found another reason to kill that poor bastard.”  
  
“You’re not angry?”  
  
“Not at you.” Seeing she isn’t quite convinced, he holds up a pinkie finger and says, solemn, “Promise.”  
  
Curling her pinkie around his somehow alleviates some of the hurt. Kaelyn can still see that man’s face, the whites of his eyes, but the guilt doesn’t press so heavily upon her.  
  
Nate clears his throat. “There was something I wanted to show you when we found you.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
With a sudden smile that startles her, he leans past her to Dogmeat and stretches out an arm. “Hey, buddy.”  
  
Dogmeat raises one paw to tap against his palm.  
  
“You taught my dog how to high five?”  
  
“Great, isn’t it? You try.” Nate elbows her, gently.  
  
Kaelyn holds up her hand and Dogmeat hits it with his paw, claws rasping against the calluses on her palm. Despite everything, that one little gesture makes her heart soar, and she laughs until she cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wonder why I normally use Valentine instead of Nick, I almost wrote ‘my husband Nick’ instead of ‘my husband Nate’.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the absence! November was pretty busy between finishing the last of my coursework for my bachelor and Nanowrimo. Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing! 
> 
> NSFW towards the end. SFW version [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12381385/20/Marriage-and-Other-Forms-of-War).

  
A gray dawn greets Kaelyn on her perch atop the Castle’s battlements, as soft and gentle as the blanket she tightens around her shoulders. Every morning this week, she’s made her way up here. On the first few occasions she nudged Nate awake to warn him, so he wouldn’t wake up alone. That pain is too fresh for her to accidentally inflict on anyone else. But now confident that she won’t vanish, he mentioned he doesn’t need the heads up anymore, so today she let him sleep. The circles under his eyes are as bad as her own, between that stressful week where she was gone, and the following week where she often woke kicking—or screaming.  
  
The ocean ripples beneath the Castle and sometimes Kaelyn convinces herself she can see its rhythmic motions. In reality it’s the knowledge that the ocean should be moving coupled with the crash of the tides throwing themselves on the rocks, sucking back into the sea with a gurgle, that convinces her eyes. An incessant coastal gale tears along the shore, whistling through every crack in the Castle’s walls, and a fresh shudder wracks through Kaelyn. Her fingers clench around her pen.  
  
The little notebook Nate gave her is open on her knees, drawn as close to her chest as possible to block the wind. Contrary to expectations, Kaelyn finds it easier to write in the dim gray atmosphere, where no one can read her words—not even herself. Her hand is cramped, the delicate weight of the pen unfamiliar in her grip, as is the way it rubs against her new calluses. After months of not writing, not seeing a reason to, her handwriting is no doubt atrocious. At least this way she can claim she wrote in the dark if anyone sees it.  
  
If legibility isn’t a requirement, all that leaves is expression. So she writes.  
  
A soft call skates across the courtyard. “Death Bunnies!”  
  
In the cool hours of dawn, even a murmur carries in the fragile air. This voice is neither a whisper nor a shout, but a conversational pitch meant for her ears alone. Turning her head, she calls back, “For life!”  
  
Credit where credit’s due: even when she’s listening, even in the predawn lull, she strains to hear Deacon’s muted footsteps, or the hiss of shifting gravel, or his soft grunt. He appears beside her, sunglasses dark and smile bright, and she unwraps her fabric cocoon to make room for him. Huddled together under the blanket, they ride out a fresh gale that carries sea spray from the ocean to their lips.  
  
Deacon peers over the drop off, and his next shudder is out of sync with the wind. “You’re lucky you’re my only friend.”  
  
“The sniper who’s afraid of heights,” she quips. “How tragic.”  
  
“Definitely lucky you’re my only friend. I wouldn’t take that sass from just anyone.”  
  
“Lucky me.”  
  
They sit together in the distant rumble of waves sucking at the shoreline. Kaelyn’s thoughts meander as the water does below, exploring crevices in dark rock pools. She glances to Deacon and then away, twisting the corner of the blanket between her fingers. She doesn’t want to ruin the moment, so she holds her tongue.  
  
If only Deacon hadn’t noticed. “Something’s on your mind. Many somethings, probably, but I’m most curious about what just made you squirm.”  
  
There’s no point denying it when he knows her every tell. “I have a question, but it isn’t an easy one.”  
  
A thread of tension pulls his shoulders taut but his voice remains blase when he says, “Shoot.”  
  
“When you quit the Deathclaws…” Ah, there it is: the thread of tension becomes a steel cable that yanks on his spine, stiffening his shoulders. Committed now, she soldiers on. “How did you resolve to be something better? Did you just… wake up one morning and decide to move on?”  
  
“I’m sensing an ulterior motive here, and I need to say: between you and me? There’s no comparison. What you did and what I did are two entirely separate things. Destroying the Institute was— well, nothing short of incredible, frankly. And you made me a lot of caps by making it into the Institute that first time.”  
  
Kaelyn drums her fingers on the hard cover of the notebook. “You know, on the day of the Great War, I saw one of the bombs detonate? What became the Glowing Sea. That was the first time I really understood what war meant. And the last time I was Kaelyn Prescott, lawyer, wife and mom.”  
  
“I know it’s hard, but I don’t think I need to rhapsodize all the Institute’s evils to you. It was necessary because—”  
  
“War never changes, am I right?” The corner of her mouth kicks up. “Well, since we’re no longer at war, we should be better than that. The world I came from, the life I came from—I used to be above all this. I know I can be better than this. There’s always going to be another threat, another battle, another war, and I can’t do it again with the same tired justifications.”  
  
Deacon is quiet for so long she jumps when he speaks. “To answer your question, it… wasn’t a conscious decision. I’m doing my bit to make the ’Wealth a little less shitty, but you can’t do a good deed to wipe a bad one off the record. Doesn’t work that way.”  
  
She doesn’t answer.  
  
“Speaking of threats, I heard about your recent run in with the coursers. Courser _s_. It was plural, right? Dez wasn’t getting revenge for all the tall tales I’ve told her?” The first rays of sunlight make the horizon glow, reflecting off Deacon’s glasses when he glances at her.  
  
Oh. Right. That. It feels so distant even though when she does the math, she realizes it was only a few weeks ago.  
  
Kaelyn tugs the corner of the blanket across her collarbones, shrinking down an extra inch. “We were too slow to do anything for the settlers they killed.”  
  
“I know. But it wasn’t your fault. No bullshit. We knew the Institute would strike back, but everyone expected they’d focus on the Railroad. Hell, I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground in case they made a move on you, and I wasn’t fast enough.”  
  
Kaelyn arches an eyebrow at that. But then, of course Deacon would keep an eye on her. “It’s not your fault, either.”  
  
“You’re right, we should totally blame the Institute for this one,” he agrees. “Dez is going on the warpath. We’ve been waiting for a retaliation, and here it is.”  
  
“I just wish—” she cuts herself off with a hard laugh. There’s no use finishing that sentence, as she’s learned since being thawed out of cryo. “I’m tired of the blood. Even if it isn’t on my hands, people still lost their lives.”  
  
Deacon weasels free of the blanket, rising to his feet, and holds out a hand to Kaelyn. Hauling her up, he says, “Me too, my friend.” After a moment, his voice brightens like the rays of sunlight that bounce off his glasses when he turns his head. “Now I need to blend in around here. Any spare uniforms I can borrow? Do I need to salute Garvey?”  
  
Shaking her head, Kaelyn fights a smile. While Deacon requisitions a disguise from the storeroom, Kaelyn returns her blanket to her room. Along the way she bumps into Valentine and even though he doesn’t eat, he still joins her for breakfast. Pushing open the door to the mess hall, they’re met by a waft of smells and voices. The menu is what it always has been since they reclaimed the Castle: scrambled mirelurk eggs.  
  
“Now there’s a sight that makes me nervous.” Valentine cocks his chin at a small table in the corner of the mess.  
  
Kaelyn follows the direction to find Nate and Deacon sitting together, gesturing with egg-laden forks as they talk. “Back me up?”  
  
“Always, partner.”  
  
They reach the table as Nate asks, “So you’re the one who taught my wife how to use a sniper rifle?”  
  
Deacon’s head shifts just enough that she can tell he’s looking at her over Nate’s shoulder. “She’s scary good at it, isn’t she?”  
  
“I don’t know whether to be afraid or impressed.”  
  
“Me neither, my friend. Me neither.”  
  
Kaelyn looks between the two men. “You two are playing nicely?”  
  
“You know me.” Nate beams at her with his most innocent smile. “I’m always on my best behavior.”  
  
Valentine hums. “I’d say the chances of those two behaving are between zero and none.”  
  
Deacon gasps. “That’s hurtful, Mr Valentine. I’m hurt.”  
  
Valentine continues his stern look for a moment longer, then cracks a smile. “Good to see you, Deacon. What brings you on a detour out this way?”  
  
“Who said it was a detour? It’s been too long since I’ve seen my buddy here, so to the Castle I came.”  
  
Ronnie calls on Nate to whip the latest batch of recruits into shape, and Kaelyn takes her post by the wall to watch. The sun has burned away her shade to a thin strip by her feet when Deacon wanders by in full Minutemen regalia to lean against the wall beside her.  
  
“So what’s this I hear about a kidnapping?”  
  
Dammit.  
  
“It… never came up?”  
  
“Sure, it’s the kind of thing that would slip my mind too, along with the eggs and milk I forgot to pick up from the market.”  
  
One of Deacon’s greatest skills is wielding casual sarcasm as one would wield an embroidery needle—with great elegance and precision—as he prods for a reaction. Kaelyn tells herself she will not rise to the bait, that this is just Deacon being Deacon, that he doesn’t _know_ what it had been like because, obviously, she hasn’t told him.  
  
“It’s not the kind of thing you just _forget!”_  
  
He pounces. “Then why not bring it up sooner? You don’t think it’s kind of important?”  
  
She slumps against the wall. “Everyone’s hovering, and the worst part is, they’re not wrong to do so.”  
  
Deacon softens at that. It’s subtle, but the corners of his mouth drop from that mocking half-smile. “Believe me, you don’t have to tell me the kinds of things gangs get up to. But from what I hear about this shadowy buyer, it’s too much effort for your average slavers. If someone wanted to hold you over the Minutemen, why do it after you’ve stepped down to a lower rank? It’s gotta be personal.”  
  
Kaelyn pinches the bridge of her nose. “Nick’s looking into it.”  
  
“Then Detective Valentine just landed himself a new partner.” Deacon gives her a winning smile. “Can I borrow your fedora? I’ll need a trench coat, too. Oh, wait! Or maybe I could go for a deerstalker and monocle. Practice my British accent.” He twists the last words with an attempt at an accent, making her face twist.  
  
“Practice in the mirror before subjecting anyone to _that.”_  
  
“Not you too. Everyone’s hurting my feelings today.”  
  
“I thought you were open to constructive criticism?”  
  
“You got me. That one was a lie as well.”  
  
“Figures.” Kaelyn chuckles. “You might want to avoid Danse. He’s our latest Minutemen recruit—and a former Brotherhood paladin.”  
  
Deacon smirks. “Dark hair? Soulful brown eyes? Walks like he’s got a stick up his ass?”  
  
Kaelyn covers her giggle with a hand. “Definitely stay away from him. I don’t want to have to mail your remains to Dez.”  
  
“Give me _some_ credit. I want to be mailed back in a fancy urn, thank you very much. Can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect of an undercroft burial. I’d rather be a fancy decoration on someone’s mantle.”  
  
This time Kaelyn’s chuckle is short and strained. She sobers quickly. “Did you hear about Amelia?”  
  
He nods, expression closing off. “Dez wants a report. We knew something bad was going on around Covenant, but never had the time or people to look into it since it wasn’t just synths going missing.” With an incredulous head shake, he scuffs one boot against the ground. “I keep telling Dez that a little help will go a long way.”  
  
“I saw the railsign near the Compound. What they were doing in there—” She draws in a sharp breath through her nose. “I bagged up all the research but didn’t destroy it. I figured if anyone can do anything beneficial with it, Amari could.”  
  
Deacon eyes her sideways. “You really think it’s a good idea to keep a prototype synth detector lying around?”  
  
“Hence why Amari’s the only person I can think of who could make any good come of it. And if not, I trust her not to use it. But honestly, Deacon? All anyone needs is an x-ray to find synths.”  
  
“Then it’s a good thing they don’t exist anymore.” His smile is too casual to be real. “By the time word got back to us, you’d already left Bunker Hill. So here I am.”  
  
“I wanted to get back here as quickly as I could.” Her eyes find Nate in the yard, his pre-war upbringing allowing him to tower over his malnourished contemporaries.  
  
Deacon shakes himself like a bird fluffing its feathers against the gale. The silver horizon reflects off his sunglasses. “I hope you realize how lucky you are. Getting your husband back.”  
  
Not for the first time, Kaelyn wishes she can do something to alleviate the ache. It used to be a silent pain they shared, a grim companionship, but now she’s won the universal lottery and Barbara is still dead. Kaelyn shoves her hands in her pockets. “I know.”  
  
“I’m not trying to guilt you. Just… appreciate it for all of us who never got the chance.”

—

It’s a mystery how Deacon does it, but he makes himself scarce about ninety seconds before Danse trots down the stairs from the battlements and makes a beeline for Kaelyn. From the sheen of sweat and the trio of exhausted Minutemen who follow him down, they’ve been running the walls.  
  
Danse follows her gaze. “I led an extracurricular training exercise. I apologize if I overstepped my position, but many of your people are in dire need of further training.”  
  
“Not a problem.” Not for her, at least. The trainees staggering to the water barrel might disagree. “Your experience can be a great help. How are you settling in?”  
  
“The walls are still weak, your supply lines are vulnerable and need to be under heavy guard, and you need to secure a permanent water supply that doesn’t rely on the sea purifier. A storm or a saboteur need only target it and your people will be in jeopardy. I’ve also witnessed many incidences of insubordination—” he pauses, clears his throat, and continues, “I mean, it’s… different to what I’m accustomed to.”  
  
Was that a hint of tact? “I’ll bet. You have any suggestions, find a colonel or our general himself.”  
  
“I will. It’s nothing short of sloppy that I wasn’t assigned any duties after I arrived.”  
  
“Most of our people are part-time volunteers. Sure, we have some full-time Minutemen, but it’s more an alliance than a military. But if you’re looking for work, take it from me, there’s _always_ a settlement somewhere that needs help.”  
  
“I would prefer to be assigned to a combat unit where my skills would be best employed.”  
  
That would also get him out of the Castle regularly, so she can’t complain. “Talk to Ronnie and she’ll set you up. No shortage of work to do.”  
  
“I will.” He takes his leave, presumably to do just that.  
  
Preston wanders out of the mess hall for his morning inspection and Kaelyn waves him over. “Morning.” He leans in the spot Deacon recently vacated, folding his arms across his chest. “You look better.”  
  
She tries not to think how ‘better’ is not flinching at loud noises, but that niggling embarrassment yet lingers. “Nice to sleep in a proper bed without worrying I’ll be dragged off in my sleep.”  
  
Next time she catches Deacon, she’ll ask him to pass on a message that Covenant should be watched. Just in case they didn’t take her warning to heart.  
  
Preston makes a sympathetic noise. “If there’s one good thing in all that, we should be able to increase our crop production now. Curie’s taken an interest to the seeds you collected. She wants to run her own tests on them, but I’d rather put them in the dirt now and harvest more seeds for her later. She’s even volunteered for our trip to Graygarden. Perked right up when I mentioned the settlement is tended by robots.”  
  
Kaelyn has to smile at that. “Curie should be short for curiosity.”  
  
Preston double takes. “Wait, you mean it isn’t?” He shakes his head. “Anyway. C’mon. I’ve got something to show you.”  
  
With a quick laugh, Kaelyn explains Curie’s namesake as he leads her across the courtyard to the small plot of land where a number of plainclothes Minutemen are crouched over freshly-turned earth, planting seeds one by one. They call greetings to the general and colonel, and Preston calls back his good mornings.  
  
Under the brim of Preston’s hat, his face is alight with excitement. “Thought you might want to see this. We’re one step closer to being self-sufficient. That way we don’t have to rely on donations from settlements. Nothing we’ve tried has taken so far—thanks to the salt, I think—but I’m hoping we can turn things around now. And that’s not all.”  
  
He then leads her out the gates. A few dozen feet away, an outer ring of wooden barricades provide the first line of defense, protecting the land around the Castle that has been cleared. More workers tend the land, the rich smell of earth dampening the sting of salt in the air. It’s a sign that they’re rebuilding—not reconstructing what was torn down, but forging something new and green out of fire and blood.  
  
What she’s looking at is hope.  
  
“If this works,” she says, “this could be a game-changer for the Commonwealth.”  
  
Preston nods. “We’re gathering some volunteers to visit Graygarden. If you’re not up to it, I understand, but you’re our best negotiator and I’m hoping they remember you there. And you’ve got this way of talking to robots.”  
  
Being pulled by opposing impulses is like having two toddlers tugging at her dress, threatening to split it at the seams. She’d been the one to negotiate the alliance between Graygarden and the Minutemen, but her last venture didn’t end well. “I’ll talk to Nate. He wouldn’t want to be left behind.”  
  
“Not surprised. If anyone wants to get to you this time they have to go through him—and me.”  
  
She squeezes his shoulder. “Appreciate it, Preston.”  
  
That night, Kaelyn relays his offer to Nate. Pacing the length of their quarters, she admits, “A part of me wants to opt out, but I can’t hide behind these walls forever.”  
  
Nate glances at her over his shoulder, from where he stands by the window. “Hope you weren’t planning on leaving me out. Because that ain’t happening this time.”  
  
All in all, that ill-fated trip hadn’t been good for convincing him that disaster doesn’t strike her with alarming regularity. “I’m betting on it.”

—

The next morning, she checks on Danse, if only for her own peace of mind. Since returning to the Castle she feels like a mouse hiding in the nooks and crannies as a cat prowls by. Maybe she should have insisted he leave at Bunker Hill. Now it’s never going to be safe for Harry or any of the other synths that are no doubt in the ranks.  
  
_Except there are plenty of Minutemen who’d put a bullet in a synth,_ a quiet voice reminds her.  
  
Danse isn’t difficult to track down: she follows the trail of disgruntled Minutemen to the shed-cum-garage that holds two sets of power armor. He’s crouched in front of his X-01 suit, tinkering with the hydraulics on one knee. Back stiffening, he glances around until he spots her darkening the doorway.  
  
“Morning,” she says, with a brevity she doesn’t feel.  
  
Danse rises to his feet. He’s finally wearing something other than his standard-issue jumpsuit: a dark jacket and faded jeans. There’s a pistol at his hip and a rifle on the nearest workbench. Eschewing any greetings, he points with his screwdriver. “Where did the Minutemen get _that?”_  
  
She follows the direction like an arrow to its target: the only other suit of power armor in the garage. Someone has repainted it in Minutemen gray-blue and stenciled the Minutemen insignia on its breastplate.  
  
Kaelyn never got a good look at the suit or how well-maintained it is. “I don’t know,” she says, honestly. “And I don’t want to know.”  
  
“Your subordinates are your responsibility,” he snaps.  
  
“I wasn’t even here when they found that, nor was I a colonel at the time.”  
  
Danse’s mouth presses into a hard line. “I am appalled you’d take such a dismissive attitude towards the people under your command. Where are your troops, Colonel?”  
  
“ _Honorary_ colonel,” she stresses. “I don’t have anyone directly under my command.”  
  
He stares at her, disbelief etched into the lines on his face. “Honorary or not, you have an authority you cannot squander.” He glares a moment longer for effect. “I fail to see what you did to deserve the rank.”  
  
Kaelyn barks a laugh, and it feels surprisingly good. “I only brought the Minutemen back from the brink of destruction. Funnily enough, they wanted to acknowledge my effort.”  
  
Disbelief returns to his expression, settling in the lines of his face. When the silence becomes awkward, he turns back to his power armor. While he tinkers with his suit, masking the lingering awkwardness with soft clanking, Kaelyn wonders if she should leave. She takes one step when Danse pauses to take in the other suit again. Then he asks, “Do you have anyone with the ability to pilot a suit?”  
  
“A few,” Kaelyn says. “Not many. If you’re able to help train our people—”  
  
Danse snorts. “We do everything in our power to keep dangerous technology out of civilian hands.”  
  
Ah. Of course. “We?” she echoes coolly.  
  
Danse’s hand tightens convulsively on his screwdriver. He doesn’t look up, back stiff, shoulders hunched. “Regardless of my current status, I intend to keep the oaths I made to the Brotherhood.”  
  
Something tightens in her chest. “If you change your mind, you’re more than welcome to teach.” With that, Kaelyn leaves him to it.  
  
She tells herself it’s because she’s irritated him enough, and not because his grief haunts her.

—

With the support of his colonels, Preston goes ahead with planning travel arrangements for the Graygarden proposal. Kaelyn’s days pass under the scope of her laser musket as she trains down at the range. Nate joins her, and even outstrips her number of hours, wavering between an intense focus that reminds her yet again how little she knows of his years in service, and jitters. Said jitters lead him to stand behind her shoulder and offer advice.  
  
The only problem is she’s discovered that she can survive far beyond what she’d thought possible, to take blow after blow and keep staggering, even if she weaves in an uneven line. She’s still learning what she’s capable of. But training for another outing? Simple.  
  
“Don’t hover. I can do this.”  
  
“I know.” But he looks chastened nonetheless.  
  
As she helps him collect spent fusion cells afterward, she shakes her head. “You’re more nervous than I am, I swear.”  
  
Nate pauses, still crouched, and turns over the spent magazine in his hands. “Look. I’m not trying to imply you’re not capable. I know you can survive it. You broke loose and made it across the Commonwealth on your own. But I’d rather you weren’t hurt in the first place.”  
  
Kaelyn clears her throat as heat rises behind her eyes.  
  
Deacon is pulled away by his Railroad obligations, but he promises to brainstorm names for their rock ‘n’ roll band in the meantime. That leaves Kaelyn to pack. She runs around the Castle, collecting more fusion cells from the armory and medical supplies from Curie in the infirmary. She’s sorting her To Take and To Leave piles when Nate strolls into their quarters.  
  
“Hey, hon. Guess what I found?” He holds out a copy of _Astoundingly Awesome Tales: The Starlet Sniper._ “Since a sniper rifle is now your weapon of choice, it seemed appropriate. Want to read it together?”  
  
She kisses his cheek. “Race you to the bottom of the page.”  
  
They pile together on the armchair—a benefit of rank—with Kaelyn on top. Nate wraps an arm around her waist to secure her in his lap while she’s appointed page-turning duty. The comic is in excellent condition considering its edges are charred. They assign themselves to certain characters to read their dialog aloud, and sometimes even do a half-decent job when they aren’t laughing at each other’s absurd voices.  
  
After the villain has just revealed herself, Kaelyn shifts on his lap to get more comfortable and Nate’s fingers dig into her hip. She considers this. Then she wiggles again with more deliberation. Nate’s sharp exhale against her neck makes her shiver, and her absent desire returns from vacation.  
  
“I know what you’re doing.” His chest rumbles against her back.  
  
Kaelyn plucks the comic from his grasp and sets it on the ground, then crosses her knees as if she’s sitting on the chair in her office, all prim and proper, and not on her husband’s lap. Turning her head, her lips ghost along his jaw. “And you’re helpless to resist my charms, yes?”  
  
He chuckles once, and the sound is huskier than he intends. “For you, always.”  
  
At last Kaelyn presses her lips to his, her hand fisting in his hair to keep him where she wants him. His mouth opens at the slide of her tongue, and the minutes pass with soft exhales. In the last week her headspace has been too preoccupied by rusted cages and silver surgical implements to even dream of him, but this is better than anything her mind could have conjured.  
  
Under Nate’s sweetness is a hard-edged desperation that grows more insistent with every passing moment, and she meets it with the rising tide of her own relief. His teeth snare her lower lip; she nips him back.  
  
Kaelyn presses her weight down on him, grinding her hip into his lap, and he makes a disappointed noise when she pulls back, panting. “Get up.”  
  
Nate obeys at once, eagerness propelling him upward, and takes off his shirt too at a motion from her. As always, her attention is first drawn to the scar on his chest, healing but not fading, and pushes back at the lump in her throat with a sudden fierceness. Not this. Not now, when they have both survived, again, to stand together again.  
  
Although, they won’t be standing for much longer if she has anything to say about it.  
  
He rakes a critical eye over her body—or, more accurately, her clothes. “It’s only fair to reciprocate, you know.”  
  
Kaelyn curls her fingers around the hem of her shirt. Hesitates. Then she pulls it over her head, choosing to be vulnerable. And for the first time in weeks, she can choose to trust.  
  
Nate watches her bare herself with a smoky hum of approval, and draws her closer. She doesn’t mind, because it means he’s close enough for her to touch, too. She circles the hard bead of his nipple, drawing a hiss from him, and relishes the feel of his heart pounding under her palm. That he’s here, his skin flushed and hot to touch, is a gift beyond measure.  
  
Leaning in to kiss her again, he digs his fingers into her hips to hold her in place. Nate may have the advantage in size and strength, but Kaelyn refuses to give ground to his hot mouth or wandering hands. Between one heartbeat and the next, she becomes so very _aware_ of how he could overpower her, how he’s checking his strength well before the line that splits competition from force. To give her a fighting chance. But although that little thread niggles in the back of her mind, the rest of her knows he’s safe. She trusts him; perhaps more importantly, he trusts her.  
  
Vulnerability works both ways, and the scabs from her latest misadventure haven’t yet fallen off.  
  
Still, Nate notices the way her fingers tighten on his shoulders, and relents. He pulls back to kiss her with more gentleness this time, and his hands trace patterns down her arms. Kaelyn has a better idea. She undresses the rest of him with a smile and a wink, swatting away his hands when he attempts to weasel his way into her pants. His noise of disappointment morphs into a moan when she takes him in hand.  
  
Oh, but she’s missed this. Not just the physical act but the spark in his eye, eager and obedient, and the way he closes his eyes and entrusts her with everything.  
  
When it’s over, Nate flops onto his side, eyes half-lidded, dazed from the endorphins. Wiping her hand on her pants, she strips out of her remaining clothes to join him after they clean up. He lies back on the pillows and invites her into the circle of his arms.Nate’s skin is slick against her palm, and with her hand on his ribs, she can feel him breathe. Heart thrumming in her chest, heat half-coiled low in her belly, Kaelyn can’t quite settle.  
  
Nate shivers and exhales against her neck as Kaelyn squirms against him. Lifting herself to rest her forearms on either side of his head, she leans over him to kiss the tip of his nose. “Do you trust me?”  
  
Nate bursts out laughing. Upon realizing she’s serious, he laughs even harder. “You just had me bent over the bed— and you have to ask—” he dissolves into chuckles again. Finally the laughter ebbs and he blows out a breath that fans across her face. “Whew. That was a good one.”  
  
Kaelyn pulls back a fraction, stung. “Nate, I’m—”  
  
“Serious, I know.” He sobers. Cups the back of her neck to halt her retreat. “I trust you with everything I have.”  
  
She kisses him, gently, because he deserves gentleness. “I love you.”  
  
“I love you too.” Lifting himself up, he flips her with care onto her back then sits back on his knees. His fingers slip between her legs, and if she expected revenge for her little show of dominance, he proves her wrong by his gentleness alone.  
  
“What do you need?”  
  
Closing her eyes, she sighs under his ministrations, arches into his touch. “Keep doing that.”  
  
So he does.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last update for the year. I’ll be back in January with the next update. I hope everyone has happy and safe holidays! 
> 
> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

This newest venture outside the Castle’s walls goes smoothly, thanks to the combined efforts of Nate, Valentine, Preston, Curie and the five-Minuteman squad that fans out around them. Their leader, Stella, gives Kaelyn a wink, saying that if raiders want to mess with a colonel, they’ll mess with the entire Minutemen. Dogmeat, of course, bounds around the group, his ears swiveling towards nearby sounds. A second squad, which counts Danse among them, follows as far as the esplanade then splits north to sort out a raider problem.  
  
The day itself is clear with a gray cast, from a fine shawl of dust kicked up by the wind. Nestled in Kaelyn’s pack are the jars of seeds, their soft rattling like the patter of rain in her ears. They provide a muted counterpart to the dog tags around her neck that jangle with every step.  
  
Before they’d left, Nate had pressed something into her palm and folded her fingers over it. “I want these back.”  
  
From the blunt-edged metal, the slithering chain between her fingers, she knew what they were. They were old friends by now. “When?”  
  
“When we get back, safe and sound. Don’t lose them—I’m rather fond of them.”  
  
Kaelyn brushed her hair away from her nape to secure his dog tags around her neck. “They’re safe with me.”  
  
Nate threaded a finger under the chain to lift the tags. Giving them a quick kiss, he’d said, “Good luck charm.”  
  
That isn’t all he does to reassure her. Not only does he stay by her side as they travel, protected as she is by the array of guards, but takes it upon himself to offer distractions. Terrible distractions. “I have a joke about a farm, but it’s a little corny.”  
  
Kaelyn groans. Preston raises an eyebrow, but one of the wandering Minutemen tries to stifle a snicker.  
  
At Bunker Hill, Valentine separates from their group. “I’m gonna swing by the agency, put Ellie on the case.”  
  
Giving his shoulder a squeeze, Kaelyn says, “Be careful, all right?”  
  
“Stole the words right out of my mouth.” With a hug for her and a handshake for Nate, Valentine sets south.  
  
Kaelyn watches his back, trench coat fluttering around his ankles, until he’s no more than another fixture in the drab brown hills.  
  
They continue on. No matter how she tells herself she’s done this many times before, that niggling unease lingers in her gut. And she loathes it. In the past she’s shaken off near-death experiences and kept moving. She didn’t even come close to dying during her brief stint as a prisoner. Not this time.  
  
Nate nudges her with an elbow. “What happens when a frog double parks? It gets toad.”  
  
That one earns him a number of confused looks from the Minutemen, either because they don’t understand double parking or because most amphibians are extinct. As they veer off the road to find a spot for lunch, a radstag startles and bounds away.  
  
Nate asks, “What do you call a deer with no eyes?” At Kaelyn’s despairing look, he grins. “No-eye-deer.”  
  
They can’t reach Graygarden soon enough. But they do so in high spirits, no matter the groans at Nate’s alleged ‘jokes’.  
  
“So the secret to not being attacked on the road is to tell bad jokes,” Stella muses.  
  
Nate shoots Kaelyn a smug look that says _see?_ She _likes my jokes_. “I have a few saved up if you’re interested.”  
  
The family’s homestead sits atop the hill, abandoned and ignored, while the nursery sprawls across the valley floor. Jet flames make it easy to spot the Handy bots that tend seedlings, water plants, trim bushes. In the age of anti-Institute paranoia, a settlement comprised entirely of robots unnerves most people. That the bots are programmed to tend crops they can’t use confuses even more people.  
  
Of their Minutemen guard, only Preston follows Kaelyn and Nate without hesitation. The others hang back, hovering by the fence line. Even Stella pauses mid-step.  
  
“It ain’t right,” Doug mutters, watching the bots propel themselves around the nursery.  
  
Dogmeat darts away to investigate a pile of fertilizer bags only to be shooed away by the attending bot. Kaelyn whistles for him, ignoring the sudden tension from the Minutemen behind her, and Dogmeat trots back to her side unmolested by any flamethrowers or clippers. The main greenhouse is massive, its windows clean, and the glass warps the visage of the nursery planters inside and the bots that bob between them.  
  
Knocking on the door frame, Kaelyn steps inside. The air grows noticeably more humid with the pungent aroma of wet earth and fertilizer. The nearest robots don’t even look up, but on the far side of the nursery, light glints off Supervisor White’s impeccable chassis as she propels herself towards her visitors.  
  
One eye stalk fixes on Kaelyn while the other two survey the envoy. Supervisor White tuts. “My, my, darling. What brings you back to Graygarden, and back to me, and with so many strangers in tow?”  
  
“The Minutemen have a proposal, supervisor, if you’re willing to entertain us.”  
  
The noise that emits from the bot could have been a throaty chuckle in a human woman. “Now that is intriguing, darling. Do tell me more.”  
  
Curie, meanwhile, has trailed one of the worker bots as it tends a tray of seedlings, watching it work. “Excuse me, but I have never seen so many robots in one place before.”  
  
The worker drone chimes something in binary and floats past her.  
  
Kaelyn clears her throat. “We got our hands on genetically modified seeds that grow to astounding sizes, and even thrive in irradiated soils. We figured you would be the best equipped to propagate them, and if you’re willing to share your harvest with Commonwealth settlements, we’ll gladly hand them over.”  
  
“I am relieved that you know Graygarden is the superior choice of nursery, darling. You won’t find better than workers who never tire or require sustenance. I must admit I’m curious about these seeds of yours.”  
  
“Before anyone agrees to anything,” Preston says, holding his hands behind his back, “you should be aware that massively upping your yield will probably make you a target. From what I’ve heard, these plants are conspicuous. Which is why we’re also offering to station a garrison here, full-time, to protect your property. If you agree, of course.”  
  
“While I am confident in our ability to protect ourselves from lowlife thieves, I must admit that damage to the farm is simply dreadful.” Supervisor White bobs in place as she deliberates. “In Dr Gray’s absence, Graygarden agrees to your terms and will begin at once. We’d have to segregate the new batch so they don’t cross-pollinate with our current samples, at least until we’re certain of these so-called miracle plants. Don’t you agree, darling?”  
  
“Uh, sure,” Kaelyn says. “Until we know these crops do what they’re supposed to.”  
  
Kaelyn insists on it being put in writing, and finds an unexpected ally in Supervisor White herself. With the agreement struck, she empties her satchel, one bottle at a time, lining the jars up on the nearest bench top. It’s only half of what June gave her, but it should be enough for Graygarden.  
  
Supervisor White examines each jar, holding it between her pincers, turning it this way and that so its contents rattle. “Hmm, yes, let’s see… that looks like tato seeds, and that mutfruit…” One eye stalk swivels to Kaelyn. “Oh, you’re still here. You may stay here for the night, if you prefer. It’s growing late. Just mind the plants and our workers.”  
  
“How about we check the digs?” Stella jerks her thumb at the dilapidated homestead perched above the valley.  
  
Curie lags behind on the walk up the winding trail. Kaelyn tugs on Nate’s hand and he slows down with her. She asks, “Is everything all right, Curie?”  
  
Curie bobs in place, her artificial irises constricting as she takes in the nursery. “Is this the lot of robots in the Commonwealth? Menial labor?”  
  
“Certainly not all of them,” Kaelyn says. “Some are integrated members of society.”  
  
Beside her, Nate snorts. “Society, my ass.”  
  
Curie’s tone is odd, stilted. “Since leaving the vault, I have observed a number of instances where humans have been wary if not outright rude toward robots. Even toward Monsieur Valentine, who is arguably more… human than one such as I.”  
  
Kaelyn mulls over the question for a few moments. It’s easy to protest Valentine’s mistreatment, and even any abuse thrown at Codsworth, but she hasn’t lost any sleep over the Handy bots toiling away in the valley below. No matter the Railroad’s arguments on ‘family nights’, she hasn’t really considered it. “The Institute’s synths have grown to be symbols of fear, and it’s easy for humans to hate what we don’t understand. People here are perhaps more cautious of robots than they might otherwise be, but there’s always a portion of people who think anyone who isn’t human doesn’t deserve rights.”  
  
Nate, sensing the grim turn in mood, adds, “Curie, as far as I’m concerned, we’re good as long as you don’t set my pants on fire.”  
  
“Oh, I would never, monsieur! I have not seen any adequate facilities to treat burns in the Commonwealth!”  
  
They’ve caught up to the others again, and Preston overhears that last remark. He looks between Nate and Kaelyn, who’s rolling her eyes. “I feel like I’m missing something here.”  
  
Kaelyn sighs. “He’s convinced Codsworth once incinerated a pair of his trousers.”  
  
“He _did!”_  
  
Unlike the meticulously maintained farm, the most that can be said of the homestead is that its roof hasn’t collapsed. They scour the place for radroaches before dumping their gear in what used to be the living room. Honeyed beams of light filter through the broken glass of the western windows, so they decide to cook while they can still see.  
  
Over dinner, Nate asks, “What do you call a deer with no eyes or legs? Still no eye-deer.”  
  
Kaelyn facepalms. “Remind me why I married you.”  
  
Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he pulls her close. “Because you love me.”  
  
“Mm. That must be it.”  
  
“Why else would she put up with those jokes?” Preston teases, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.  
  
The conversation turns to planning, as the squad brainstorm what they’ll need to keep this place secure from raiders.  
  
“Could use this house as a garrison for any guards you station here,” Nate says, leaning back in his chair.  
  
“And as a bunkhouse for any traders who want to deal with Graygarden,” Stella adds.  
  
With Supervisor White’s blessing, they spend the next two days cleaning up the old homestead, scrapping any rubble that can be reused and using the rest to build a rough perimeter around the property. As someone rather handy with a spanner, Stella takes a look at the house’s plumbing to see if it can be saved. Since Graygarden still has access to running water, with a few repairs the house has working faucets again. The next step is to set up a generator so they can have hot water.  
  
Noticeably absent from the cleanup is Curie, who Kaelyn finds that evening under the car port, taking a sample of some kind of mold that has flourished in the faux leather interior of a rusted-out car.  
  
“Hey, Curie. You seem to be thinking.” It seems that brooding alone transcends humanity.  
  
“I wonder if the data I’m collecting will serve any purpose?” Curie sighs. “These robots here, they have a purpose. A simple one, perhaps, but no job is too small to be useful. While I have fulfilled my purpose, their programming still guides them. And still… limits them. But, oh, listen to me, madame, rambling on. Was there something you needed?”  
  
“Nothing right now.”  
  
As they rejoin the work crew, a man named Doug grouches, “Nice of you to join us, bot. Now get back to your job.”  
  
“Hey,” Kaelyn barks. “There’s no need to be rude. Curie’s helping us because she wants to.”  
  
“It’d be much faster if the other robots helped out, too,” Doug grumbles.  
  
“Because they have enough work as it is,” Stella retorts.  
  
Undeterred, he continues with, “Why do the robots get these supposedly magic seeds instead of a homestead where they can do actual good?”  
  
“Because they won’t keep the yield all to themselves,” Stella retorts. “They don’t need food, and they’re programmed to farm. If this works, we can spread the seeds to all four corners of the ’Wealth.” She looks down at the rusted drum she’s hauling. “First the Institute gone, now this. Almost feels like we can rebuild, you know?”  
  
Doug halts, shovel in hand. “What, you mean like another Commonwealth Provisional Government?”  
  
“Don’t call it that!” another woman, Olivia, hisses.  
  
Doug, on the other hand, looks thoughtful. “But there’s no Institute to sabotage it this time. Right?”  
  
“Still, man. Bad vibes.”  
  
What none of them realize until this moment is that Preston is standing nearby, listening to their conversation. “We couldn’t impose anything on the rest of the Commonwealth, but… maybe it’s time to try again. We’ll need trade agreements with Graygarden anyway. We have an alliance of settlements. So why not go all the way?”  
  
Valentine had once told Kaelyn about the ill-fated Commonwealth Provisional Government that attempted to unify the Commonwealth. But now—now she pauses to consider what it could be.  
  
That night, while the others set up a guard rotation and go to sleep, Kaelyn and Preston clear a desk in Dr Gray’s office to talk.

—

Stella’s squad remains to oversee rebuilding the lodge and guard Graygarden, while Preston moves on to a nearby settlement that radioed for help. Kaelyn and Nate detour to Sanctuary for a few quiet days with Codsworth.  
  
Kaelyn gingerly pulls open the closet door, which has been painstakingly repaired and screwed back into place. Her wardrobe takes up a fraction of the space it used to, but at least Nate’s clothes once again rest on the shelf beside hers. In dire need of shirts whose sweat stains don’t have sweat stains, she goes digging for things to take back to the Castle.  
  
Her hands brush a package at the back of the closet, and she pauses. There’s no need to pull it out when she’s memorized every object inside. They’re some of the belongings that Codsworth preserved for two centuries. Indeed, it’s safer hidden away from the Wasteland’s cruelty.  
  
But after recent events, the siren song of familiarity is too much to ignore. Kaelyn pulls out the package and sits on the bed. Glimmers of red and green and gold peek through the plastic, and she longs to run her hands through her mother’s saris. They’d been shrink-wrapped and stored long before the bombs.  
  
_For special occasions,_ her _amma_ had said. After she’d died, Kaelyn had inherited garments she couldn’t bear to look at, let alone wear. She runs a hand over the dusty plastic, wishing it were the silk underneath. Wonders if they still smell like her mother’s detergent.

Outside, a brahmin brays, followed by human shouts.  
  
“Kaelyn!” Nate calls from outside. “Could use a hand out here!”  
  
No matter. It’s not like she could wear these in the Wasteland anyway. So she tucks them away in the cupboard, consigned to darkness and safety, and trots outside to help herd an adventurous brahmin back to her pen.  
  
By the time they return to the Castle, there’s been an uptick in activity and the courtyard is fuller than ever. Danse’s squad has already returned from their mission, although Ronnie still has him training with the recruits.  
  
When Kaelyn works up the nerve to ask why, when he’s clearly beyond the basics, Ronnie just grins. It’s a rather fearsome sight. “He motivates the others.”  
  
Word has spread through the ranks about uniting the settlements, and the remaining colonels are amenable to the idea. As word trickles down to the rest of the Castle, opinions are mixed. Enough are enthusiastic about the idea, hyped by the optimistic atmosphere that has prevailed since the Institute’s downfall. It tips public favor towards taking another shot.  
  
Preston’s endorsement sways many who are on the fence, and in the coming weeks a number of settlements radio in or send word through the caravans that if any talks are in motion, don’t forget to invite them.  
  
No one dares to utter the words ‘Commonwealth Provisional Government’.  
  
The moment Kaelyn steps foot into the war room—a moniker that sits oddly, given there has been only talk of peace since the colonels have assembled— she pauses. The faces of her colleagues betray trouble. Indeed, she’s been volunteered to issue formal invitations to Diamond City, Goodneighbor and Bunker Hill. That all three of the Commonwealth’s largest settlements have fallen to Kaelyn is a fact she doesn’t miss.  
  
Preston says, “None of them are formally allied with us, but that doesn’t mean we should snub them.”  
  
“Not yet, at least,” Faiza mutters. “If they try to walk over our smaller settlements, all bets are off.”  
  
Preston rests a hand on Kaelyn’s shoulder. “You’re one of the few people who entered the Institute and came out the other side. People know it. Don’t underestimate how much your presence bolsters people’s nerves.”  
  
_That_ is an eyebrow-raising revelation. At first the Institute’s reputation never intimidated her—how could it, when everything about this awful future threatened her very life?—or dissuaded her from finding her son. Later, with the mystery solved, the curtain thrown back, there’d been no reason to fear a group of amoral scientists. “So you’re saying I’m a good-luck charm?”  
  
Faiza chuckles once. “That’s exactly what we’re saying. Are you in?”  
  
Kaelyn glances from face to face around the table, and her nod seals it. “Let’s do this.”  
  
Radio Freedom can send word to Minutemen-allied settlements, but not so with independent settlements. Hence Kaelyn being volunteered, not only as a skilled negotiator but also as someone with contacts in all three settlements.  
  
With Nate and Dogmeat in tow, they set out for Bunker Hill first. If Kaelyn spends most of the trip thinking instead of watching for threats, then it’s fortunate she has her boys looking out for her. By the time Bunker Hill’s monument strikes out on the horizon, she has something of a game plan ready. She makes a beeline for Old Man Stockton’s sprawling store, and quietly mentions to him that the Minutemen are holding talks which might open new trade opportunities, if only Bunker Hill sends a delegation.  
  
Hint delivered, Kaelyn turns to leave, only to bump into Amelia. “Amelia! You’re looking better.”  
  
She nods. “I am, thanks. It’s hard to sleep inside, but I never thought I’d be grateful for how noisy Bunker Hill is. Reminds me where I am, you know?”  
  
They part with a quick hug, Amelia throwing her arms around Kaelyn’s neck and Kaelyn gently squeezing her back. From there Kaelyn seeks out Kessler to offer the formal proposal.  
  
Her grudge against the Minutemen is legendary. Going toe-to-toe with one of the biggest merchant leaders in the Commonwealth is almost a challenge akin to what Kaelyn might have seen in the courtroom.  
  
Kessler is less than impressed. “What advantages does this afford us, really? Bunker Hill is already the true trade hub of the Commonwealth. Whatever we need, we can already barter for.”  
  
“It is, of course, your choice whether to send a delegation,” Kaelyn answers, “but is it wise to opt out of what could be important negotiations without considering all options? None of us know what the outcome of these talks will be, but who knows? Does Bunker Hill wish to sit out on what might make history?”  
  
Like any decent merchant, Kessler refuses to play her hand yet. “I’ll need time to deliberate.”  
  
As the last rays of sunlight paint lines of gold and gray through the city, Kaelyn and Nate wander hand-in-hand to the food court. Dogmeat plops under their table, resting his head on someone’s knee when he wants to beg for scraps.  
  
There’s a commotion at the bar, and as Kaelyn glances up she notices lamplight flash off a pair of sunglasses. Their owner removes himself from the brewing bar fight, and Nate has the same idea. He hauls her out of her chair and they beat a hasty escape before they can become collateral damage. When Kaelyn glances around again, Deacon’s gone.  
  
Or out of sight, at least.  
  
They make it only a few streets away from the food court. By the brahmin pen, the stench is usually enough to keep all but the brahmin owners and farm hands from the immediate vicinity. It should be enough to keep them safe. One of said workers is wearing the same denim jacket and glasses she’d glimpsed at the bar.  
  
“Deacon.”  
  
“Deacon? I don’t know any Deacon. You’re looking at Julian.” He gives her a winning smile from where he leans on the fence.  
  
Folding her arms over her chest, she cocks her weight on one hip. “What a funny coincidence.”  
  
“Ain’t it just?”  
  
Kaelyn maintains her stern expression for a moment longer, then relaxes. Even if he’s keeping tabs on her, this is a rare instance where he does it because he cares. “Funnily enough, I feel better knowing you’re keeping an eye on things.”  
  
“It would be unfair if you don’t get to live in this slightly less shitty world you’ve ushered in.” Dropping any pretense of amusement, he continues, “And if the coursers weren’t a wake up call? The raiders were. Something’s gunning for you, and we look after our own.”  
  
It’s—warming, that even if she cut ties with the Railroad, she still merits their protection.  
  
Nate shuffles closer to her and slides a hand around her waist. “Nice to know someone is taking this seriously. It’s not creepy if it’s a guardian angel, right?”  
  
Deacon crouches to greet Dogmeat. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t just out here to spy on you. One of our caravans is overdue, so I’ve been following the trail. Could use some backup on this, if you’re up for it.”  
  
At this point, is it even worth pretending that she could retire to Sanctuary as a hermit? “All right, count us in.”  
  
“Huh?” Deacon looks up from patting Dogmeat. “I was talking to my furry friend here, but if you want in that’s cool too.”  
  
Rolling her eyes, Kaelyn makes a casual swipe at Deacon, knocking his beret off his bald head.  
  
The next morning, she seeks an answer from Kessler. Pressure from Stockton forces her hand, even if her promise to send a delegation of interested parties is less than enthusiastic.  
  
“This isn’t a binding agreement,” Kaelyn assures her. “Nobody’s signed anything yet. We’re just going to talk.”  
  
“I’m holding you to that.”  
  
After restocking their supplies, Kaelyn and Nate meet Deacon by the obelisk and slip out the gates in the chaos of a caravan’s arrival. Deacon leads them north, where he and Kaelyn scope out the bridge before venturing across.  
  
When they’re a safe distance away from any listening ears, she asks, “What’s the job?”  
  
“Caravan’s a week overdue. It was supposed to check in at Mercer. Our guys at the safehouse checked the surrounding area, but they can’t wander too far and leave our packages unprotected. So I’m following the caravan’s expected route from Bunker.”  
  
The countryside creeps to meet them before they’ve passed through the city’s boundaries. Tufts of sickly grass escape the confines of dead yards to crawl around chunks of concrete. Vines dangle from a stoplight, their curling tendrils brushing Nate’s hair as he wanders underneath. As the buildings shrink from ten stories to five to two, plants rise to make up the height difference; maples stand on street corners like loitering pedestrians. Summer’s grasp has coaxed sparse foliage from the twisted shrubs, their spindly branches as strong as a cobweb’s shadow.  
  
Tracking the caravan is much easier with Dogmeat’s keen nose. Deacon steps over a flattened fence to wander around a house to find a half-filled bathtub in the backyard. Chunks of charcoal have been spread across the ground, and inside the house there are fresh footprints. Whistling for Dogmeat—in an eerily accurate mimicry of Kaelyn’s own whistle—Deacon leads him to the back porch to get the scent, and then they’re off again.  
  
Along the way, Nate asks, “What starts with the letter E, ends with the letter E and has one letter?”  
  
Kaelyn arches an eyebrow in her husband’s direction. “The letter E.”  
  
He beams at her. “An envelope.”  
  
While she buries her face in one hand, Deacon points at Nate and says, “I like this guy.”  
  
They stop for lunch in the shadow of the overpass, then set out into the countryside proper. Clouds have crept across the sky, slump-backed and dark-bellied, leaching burning power from the sun.  
  
A short whuff from Dogmeat is their only warning before he gallops over to a nearby ditch, pressing his nose to the ground. He circles the area once, then disappears between the bushes. Following his urgent bark, they careen to a halt in a small clearing.  
  
The smell hits Kaelyn before she registers the sight. About a half-dozen dead traders, their brahmin slaughtered alongside them.  
  
Deacon points at the ally railsign carved on the brahmin’s yoke. “These are our guys.”  
  
Nate slips past her to crouch by the nearest body, and she doesn’t miss the way he positions himself to block her line of sight. As sweet as it is, corpses are a common sight now. “’Bout a week old, maybe. How good is your information?”  
  
“ _I_ am as good as you’ll ever get. But word travels slow and we can’t be everywhere. Maybe we should look into cloning. Then I _can_ have eyes and ears everywhere.” Deacon strolls past her to the dead brahmin and stops, all pretense of humor sliding away. “Somebody recount the bodies for me? Either I’m hallucinating or there aren’t seven.”  
  
Kaelyn counts. There are only five in the clearing.  
  
She and Nate spread out, the former leading Dogmeat around the site to see if he can pick up another trail. In case some survivors managed to escape. It might have worked if it didn’t start pouring rain in thick gray sheets. Kaelyn shudders in the downpour and crouches to rest a hand on Dogmeat’s sodden back. He sniffs around, then lifts his head with a whine.  
  
It’s a dead end.  
  
She says, “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”  
  
Deacon looks up at their return, raindrops streaking down his glasses. Maybe it’s the play of water over his face, but it seems like a phantom hope disappears at her grim expression. “Damn. Nothing?”  
  
She has to yell to be heard properly in the downpour. “He lost the trail.”  
  
Rising to his feet, Deacon wipes the mud off his hands. “I’d say those synths are back under Institute control.”  
  
Always the primary suspect.  
  
“You’re sure it was them?”  
  
The survivors she’s seen could barely make it on their own, let alone arrange a synth reclamation squad.  
  
Deacon points at the laser burns, then shows her the tread of a gen one’s foot preserved in the mud under the cart, protected from the rain. “Unless the Brotherhood have claimed old-school synths in the name of technology, or whatever the hell they pray to. Institute’s still got enough legs to kick us in the pants. If there’s no trail from here, there’s nothing we can do now but find shelter.”  
  
Blundering into rainy wilderness won’t help those synths now. But he dislikes the prospect as much as she does.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Nate says, looking between Kaelyn and Deacon.  
  
Deacon shrugs, but the movement is grim. “This is how it is. Sometimes you can help, and sometimes…” He gestures to the massacre.  
  
Something in Nate’s face shifts. “Sometimes you’re too late. I get that.”  
  
Deacon wipes his hands on his trousers. “Mercer’s not too far away. As long as you’re not going to blab anything you see, we can sleep somewhere dry tonight. My hair is never going to recover otherwise.”  
  
Nate asks, “Just who am I going to blab your secrets to? My friends are all dead.”  
  
Kaelyn winces.  
  
Noticing her reaction, he makes a brave attempt at a smile. “I would never share your secrets with anyone… unless they’re really, really funny.”  
  
She flicks a wet lock of hair behind Nate’s ear. “Good thing Deacon’s jokes suck, then.”  
  
“Hey!” Deacon slings an arm around her shoulders, and she shudders at how cold he is. “You can meet your replacements— I mean, our newest agents.”  
  
Nate shakes his head. “You’re telling me you need multiple people to replace my wife? Always knew she was special.”  
  
“Yeah, our Whisper is one-of-a-kind.”  
  
Kaelyn arches an eyebrow. “If they’re running a safehouse, aren’t they caretakers rather than heavies?”  
  
Deacon pats her shoulder. “Have you ever thought about becoming a detective? You might be good at it. And you’ve already got the hat.”  
  
They’ve tracked far enough northwest that they only have to follow the bank of the lake to reach Taffington Boathouse. The rain remains a constant drone, just heavy enough to plaster their hair to their skulls but not so heavy to destroy all visibility. Kaelyn sidles up to Nate and takes his hand, even if it’s a bad move in the field. His cold fingers thread through hers, but his expression remains distant.  
  
“So about these synths…” When both Kaelyn and Deacon glance Nate’s way, he continues, “Are they like Nick?”  
  
“Nick’s a prototype second gen—far more advanced than your average gen two, but still mechanical. Gen threes are bio-engineered.”  
  
“Meaning…?”  
  
“They look human.”  
  
He frowns at that but says nothing more. Kaelyn vaguely recalls explaining this to him before, but it probably won’t sink in until he’s seen them for himself.  
  
Mercer Safehouse is poised on the north bank of the lake, standing proud in the gloomy evening. The brahmin pen has been converted to a garden and the windows reinforced with new mesh to keep the bloodbugs out. The previous owners of the house are buried in the yard, under a nearby tree.  
  
The backyard teleporter has long since been scrapped but the defenses built around it remain: a tin-and-sandbag wall that fences off the property line and two machine gun turrets Kaelyn managed to requisition from the Minutemen. With so many settlements upgrading their defenses, it isn’t an unusual sight anymore. Even if Carrington had disapproved of calling attention to the safehouse in any way.  
  
Before Deacon can set foot on the stairs, a gray-haired Asian man steps onto the porch, his shotgun trained on the newcomers. He asks, “Any of you folks happen to have a Geiger counter?”  
  
Deacon spreads his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips, heedless of the barrel directed towards his chest. “Sorry, buddy, but mine’s in the shop.”  
  
Nate looks between the two sides as the hostility melts away, and Kaelyn reaches back to take his hand again, tugging him up the stairs.  
  
Deacon pushes the barrel of the caretaker’s shotgun away with one finger as he steps onto the porch. “You don’t remember me, Uncle? I’m cut.”  
  
“They’re the rules, Deacon,” Uncle says, looking a little too gleeful. He bends down to give Dogmeat a scratch behind his ears. “And you two are?”  
  
“This is our one and only Whisper, and a newbie we’ve taken under our wing.”  
  
Under Uncle’s assessing gaze, Kaelyn can’t give Deacon a sideways look for that lie. They’d never let Nate through the door otherwise, but it doesn’t sit right. “A pleasure, Uncle.”  
  
“Pleasure’s mine. You fast-tracked an ending we’d lost hope was coming. Now come inside before you attract attention. It’s a bit tight, but you can sleep on the floor.”  
  
The moment Kaelyn steps over the threshold, she realizes what he means. Four synths are squished on a couch and another two on a window box seat. They all stare at the newcomers. The ceiling creaks and three more faces appear at the top of the stairs. Dogmeat’s sudden appearance, sniffing at the feet of the nearest synth, is first cause for alarm, then curiosity when they realize this particular surface native isn’t out for their blood.  
  
Kaelyn almost gapes at the crush of bodies. “Are you all synths?”  
  
There’s a chorus of affirmations around the room. Nine. There are _nine_ synths in Mercer Safehouse. Yes, the Railroad lost the Switchboard and many other sanctuaries, but surely they’ve scouted new safehouses since? Or are there so many lost synths that the perpetually-understaffed Railroad is bursting at the seams?  
  
A man—just a kid, really—hunches into his ill-fitting green sweater like a woolen turtle shell. He ventures, “You’re—Father’s mother? The one who led the rebellion?”  
  
Behind her, Nate goes still. Intent. It’s so quiet she can hear the soft _plink-plink-plink_ of water dripping to the floor.  
  
Kaelyn tries for a yes but her throat is too tight, so she nods instead.  
  
A ripple goes around the room.  
  
“She looks like Father.”  
  
“I saw her once when she left BioScience.”  
  
“I thought she died in the rebellion.”  
  
The tension is broken when a middle-aged woman circles around the coffee table to get a closer look at Kaelyn. “I still can’t believe there are humans who’d help us.”  
  
A blond man says, “I never dreamed you’d choose us over Father.”  
  
Turtle Boy doesn’t have the nerve to shake her hand but says, “It’s been—hard up here. But it was unbearable to stay.”  
  
Kaelyn waves off their appreciation with growing unease. It isn’t something they should be thanking her for.  
  
“See?” Deacon murmurs into her ear. “Remember that this is what we fought for.”  
  
Grabbing his arm, Kaelyn drags him out to the porch that overlooks the lake. She hisses, so low it could be mistaken for insect song, “We can’t have this many synths in here!”  
  
“I know,” he whispers back, “but we’ve got no choice. Scouting new safehouses takes time and we need all hands on deck moving packages. Hell, _I’ve_ been roped into being a runner once or twice.”  
  
She blinks. If their best spy has been reassigned to synth smuggling, the Railroad must be short on people. “I didn’t realize things were this dire.”  
  
“ _Dire_ might be overstating it a little. Especially without the Institute _or_ the Brotherhood breathing down our necks. Maybe more like desperate.”  
  
They lean on the railing together and watch the water. True to Kaelyn’s luck, the rain has relented now that they’ve reached shelter, conceding to the persistent drone of helium-breathing insects nearby.  
  
There’s a commotion out the front. Deacon tenses until the sound of greetings carry in the twilight.  
  
“—just stopping in. Wouldn’t have come if we had a choice—”  
  
Three people round the corner of the house. The first is Uncle, and the other two are unfamiliar.  
  
“Ah, there you are. Whisper, meet Phoenix and—”  
  
The last member of the trio freezes mid-step when they see her. Recognition is a second slower on Kaelyn’s end, then she steps past Deacon. “You. I saw you in the Institute—and you’re not a synth. What are you _doing_ here?”  
  
“It’s okay!” Phoenix, touches their arm. “Expat is with me. They aren’t with the Institute anymore.”  
  
Expat purses their lips. “I go by Ripley now. Or Expat, when I’m on the job.”  
  
Kaelyn glances sideways to Deacon, who has remained uncharacteristically silent. “Did you know about this when you let them in?”  
  
“Yeah. You should’ve been there for the argument, Whisper. Nothing says ‘family’ quite like a stand-up shouting match that shakes dust from the ceiling. Carrington hasn’t talked to PAM since.”  
  
Tellingly, Deacon doesn’t mention how he cast his vote.  
  
Kaelyn looks between him and Expat. “Why?” She isn’t entirely sure who the question is addressed to.  
  
Expat takes it on themselves to give an answer. “I had nowhere else to go. When I was teleported out during the—” they swallow, “the attack, I found S3— I mean, Phoenix here. We’ve stuck together ever since. He suggested we find the Railroad. And I couldn’t… what, get revenge? Do to your home what you did to mine? I don’t want to become like you.”  
  
Ouch.  
  
It’s—a fair hit.  
  
“And you’ve had no contact with anyone from the Institute since?”  
  
Whether or not that story is true, Kaelyn can’t believe Expat has been trusted with a safehouse’s location.  
  
“Aside from the synths, right?”A moment later, their shoulders drop an inch. “Sorry. Just tired of being asked that question.”  
  
While Kaelyn isn’t completely convinced, Deacon’s lack of hostility is an important sign. She’ll have to ask what convinced him they’re genuine—or at least why he has reasonable belief they could be genuine. She heaves a sigh. “I guess we need all the help we can get.”  
  
“Anyway,” Deacon says, the brightness in his voice outshining the lantern in Expat’s hand. “This is Phoenix and Expat. Uncle here is looking out for the new kids.”  
  
Ah. He must be more than Expat’s mentor but also their monitor. Are the Railroad desperate? Yes. Are they paranoid? Also yes.  
  
“Nice to meet the legendary Whisper at last,” Phoenix says. “You’re famous—or infamous—in these parts.”  
  
Agent Whisper was never aloof from her fellows, but neither was she the life of the party. Most of the agents she counted as friends are dead now. Part-shadow, part-legend, Kaelyn now realizes how much her reputation is going to bite her. Only the agents at HQ are inured to her mythos.  
  
On the way back inside, Deacon murmurs, “Expat doesn’t know the location of HQ or any other safehouses, so don’t blow it, okay? If they’re serious about turning over a new leaf, great. If not, we’ll find out. One way or another.”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
He pitches his voice even lower, after making sure Expat isn’t in earshot. “They helped some of Phoenix’s friends escape from a group of Institute survivors. Then gave up the group’s location to us.”  
  
At that, Kaelyn pauses. It explains why Ripley changed their given name on top of their code name. She doesn’t remember their old name, but recalls seeing their face in Advanced Systems. A research assistant or somesuch.  
  
She considers asking what happened to those survivors, then decides she doesn’t want to know. “Understood.”  
  
“Look at it this way: if the Railroad is by definition about freeing synths, they passed the entry requirements.”  
  
“If I didn’t know better,” Kaelyn says, “I’d say you’re asking me to trust them.”  
  
Deacon smirks. “But you know me better than that.” He briefly touches her shoulder, nothing more than a feather-light bump of his shoulder against her own. “I want a second pair of eyes on them.”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
Having been left with the synths, Nate has tried to make small talk, but it’s rather difficult to connect with recently-freed slaves over Red Sox or the weather, so he’s teaching Turtle Boy and a few others how to cheat at poker. Dogmeat has already won over two synths, snuggling between them on the couch while they run their fingers through his fur with something akin to wonder. Uncle and Phoenix retreat to the kitchen to check on a large pot of stew, the latter gently chasing out any other synths who drift in to take on the menial work. Expat stays on the porch, out of sight.  
  
Dinner is dished out, and the noise made by the synths is inversely proportional to their number. None of them talk, either from habit or fear, even if there are a number of wayward glances cast towards the Railroad agents. If not for their number, if not for the fresh hope glimmering in their eyes, it could be any other night from the past four months when Kaelyn stopped in at a safehouse.  
  
After dinner they squish together on the under-equipped furniture to play cards. High Rise always cautioned her that it’s better to have minimal contact with the synths they smuggle, but it’s the first contact synths have as free people. Kaelyn prefers they remember her as the woman with an excellent poker face but mediocre poker hand than as the woman who instigated the synth rebellion.  
  
After the synths are shuffled off to bed, the agents take up positions around the tiny living room. Uncle sits on the stairs while Phoenix and Expat claim the rug. Deacon sprawls on the window box seat to maximize his visual range; this way, he can spot any eavesdropping synths on the landing, watch both exits, and glance out the window behind him. Nate tugs Kaelyn down on the loveseat beside him. She side eyes Expat’s inclusion but holds her tongue.  
  
Uncle leans forward from where he sits on the stairs, dangling his beer off one knee. “Didja find our latest package?”  
  
Deacon shakes his head. “Hit by the Institute. Couldn’t find all the bodies, so I’d say they reclaimed the synths and left the rest for dead.” With his sunglasses all but superglued to his face, it’s impossible to tell where his eyes stray.  
  
Since Kaelyn can’t pull off the sunglasses-at-night look, the direction of her gaze is obvious.  
  
Expat throws their hands up. “Why does everyone look at me every time the Institute comes up? I didn’t have anything to do with this. I wouldn’t be here if I really believe synths are just tools.”  
  
Kaelyn makes a non-committal noise. “Did the Institute have any evacuation protocols? A backup location?”  
  
“You aren’t asking me anything that others haven’t already asked,” they retort. “I didn’t have access to any classified information. And possible exits—or entrances—to the Institute were classified. All we were ever told was ‘proceed in an orderly fashion and wait for orders from the Directorate’.”  
  
“But in your estimation, enough Institute personnel could have escaped to regroup somewhere? Because it’s fairly obvious by now that enough survived to hinder our efforts.”  
  
Expat shrugs once, jerky. “If they survived this hellhole, possibly. But the SRB is gone, their records are gone, and their equipment is gone.”  
  
“Don’t need any of that to wage a war, kid,” Uncle rumbles.  
  
“We always knew it wouldn’t be as easy as taking down the Institute,” Deacon says. “They might not have the SRB, but now they have a vendetta. I’ll pass this on to HQ.”  
  
“They have to have a base somewhere,” Phoenix says. “If they can send their grunts out to reclaim their lost property, it means the coats have a secure place to hole up. Can’t imagine them parting from their protection otherwise—or doing the dirty work themselves.”  
  
Expat clenches their jaw but doesn’t comment.  
  
The meeting adjourns, and they all drift away to other parts of the house.  
  
Nate gathers Kaelyn in his arms. Out of all the things he could question her on—the synths, Father, the Railroad’s modus operandi—he chooses something else entirely. “Newbie, huh?”  
  
She touches her lips to his ear. “Only way someone gets through the door. Being my husband isn’t enough. It’s safer if family and friends don’t know.”  
  
Except Expat has been watching their entire exchange. They stare hard at Nate, then their eyes widen. “You look like—? But Father said only his mother survived—”  
  
“That’s none of your concern,” Kaelyn says without heat.  
  
Their face closes over and they give a curt nod. “Fine.” Rifle in hand, they brush past to take watch on the front porch. Deacon drifts out after them with a casual salute.  
  
For lack of options, Kaelyn and Nate pile on the couch to sleep. She lies atop his chest as his hands wander up and down her spine.  
  
Nate turns his head so his mouth is against her ear. “So they’re all… synths?”  
  
“Everyone except for Uncle and Expat, yeah.”  
  
Nate shakes his head, incredulity scrawled over his face. “I never would’ve guessed that they’re not human. That’s… creepy.”  
  
“It takes some getting used to, I know. But doesn’t it imply there’s no discernible difference between us and them?”  
  
He shifts his weight around while he thinks. “No argument I can make against that, but it’s still, uh… weird.”  
  
She kisses his cheek. “Just keep an open mind, okay?”  
  
“Will do.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references [War Relics](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7244320), but all you need to know is a member of Nate’s old army squad survived as a ghoul and Kaelyn ran into him earlier. I also apologise to any Bostonians for my likely incorrect descriptions of Fenway Park.
> 
> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

In the morning, they set out for Diamond City to check in on Valentine and make some quiet inquiries about the Commonwealth Provisional Government, take two. The patrols they pass in the Fens are edgy, waving them by with a terse ‘watch yourself’. When the city entrance comes into view, something looks off.  
  
Kaelyn squints, and realizes the gate is shut.  
  
“They’re having an exclusive party in there and didn’t invite us?” Deacon sighs. “That’s just mean.”  
  
Nate asks, “Think we can get in?”  
  
“Only one way to find out.” Kaelyn marches to the intercom and buzzes security. “This is Colonel Kaelyn Prescott of the Minutemen. We have business in Diamond City. Could you open the gate?”  
  
The response is tinny, but recognizably Danny’s. “ _I_ _’m sorry, but the gates stay shut right now. Council’s orders. Please don’t ask me to disobey them.”_  
  
“I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with your superiors. Thanks, Danny.”  
  
His voice follows her as she turns away. “ _I didn_ _’t do anything, but you’re welcome. And, uh, thanks.”_  
  
Deacon gestures for them to retreat out of the intercom’s range. “He didn’t mention roaming super mutants or any other reason to keep the place locked up, so something’s going down in there.”  
  
Nate looks up and down along the walls. “There are other ways into the park. Are all of them guarded?”  
  
Kaelyn cocks her weight on one hip as she thinks. “The old main entrance is blocked by rubble, but Piper once told me about a hole in the wall covered by only a bookcase. There has to be a way in.”  
  
“A bookcase?” Nate chortles. “Not even some plywood and duct tape? All right. I know a few emergency exits we can start with.”  
  
He leads them around the corner to a quiet garage of sorts where three security guards lounge around a table. They tense at the approach of strangers, but Nate just waves and keeps moving without missing a beat. Kaelyn keeps a wary eye on the streets to their right. The old buildings don’t creak like downtown, but brick and mortar debris make it difficult to move quietly. Dogmeat stays close by, his ears swiveling in all directions.  
  
Further along, the emergency stairs are boarded over. Nate probes at the nails holding the boards in place, then moves on.  
  
Behind them, the sounds of the guards grabbing their gear for patrol carry down the street. Nate leads the way to a nearby alley, and they stop once they get around the corner.  
  
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Deacon asks.  
  
Nate grins. “I was going to keep going, but if they just left it’s a golden opportunity.”  
  
Pressing his back to the wall, Deacon peers around the corner. “Good news! We’re golden.”  
  
They jog back to the garage, keeping a wary eye out for security as well as Boston’s usual threats. Deacon steps lightly around the mattresses and tables that make this small outpost, already pulling out a bobby pin. He unlocks the door while Kaelyn and Nate stand guard, then they’re inside old Fenway Park.  
  
When Nate pulls shut the door behind them, all light vanishes. He switches on his pip-boy’s light and Kaelyn follows suit after a moment’s hesitation. There shouldn’t be anything lurking in the old walls, but even so.  
  
Of course, any attempt at stealth is ruined when Kaelyn sneezes. Dust and mortar crawl up her nose, hitting the back of her throat, and she sneezes again. Deacon freezes, head cocked, waiting. He holds up a hand when Nate tries to pass him and only lowers it when he’s convinced it’s safe.  
  
Their footsteps echo as they walk down the hall, its walls veiled with peeling posters. Something glows around the corner, with a soft green that has Kaelyn cocking Deliverer. They switch off their pip-boys’ torches.  
  
Nate sidles up to the corner and peers around. His shoulders drop so Kaelyn lowers her gun. He glances back at them; even in the dim light, she can see his sheepish expression. “Light for the restroom.”  
  
Deacon peers around Nate’s bulk to see for himself. “Huh. Didn’t know this part of the city still had power.”  
  
“It’s not a _city,_ _”_ Nate mutters.  
  
Past the bathrooms is a set of stairs that they take up. Darkness strips all distinguishing features until every corridor is vaguely familiar, but Nate seems to know where he’s going. Kaelyn doesn’t question him, and soon enough they stand at a set of double doors. He has to throw his weight against them, but they swing outward with a rusty screech.  
  
A solid wall of sunlight waits on the other side. Kaelyn shoves her sunglasses back down but the glare is fierce, reflecting off the old stands, the tin roofs, the mud. Nate gestures at them to crouch as they step out onto the stands. Their position offers a view of the muddy hovel town instead of a world-renowned baseball stadium. The seats are broken, groaning as Kaelyn scrapes by, trying to get her bearings. It turns out they’re on the far side of the city farthest from the gates.  
  
The neighborhood below doesn’t have as bad a reputation as the West Stands, but it’s reserved for those without affluence or farming ability, crammed between the marketplace and the dam.  
  
Nate stares down, but it’s nothing like the way he used to watch the game. Kaelyn squeezes his shoulder. Without looking back, he briefly covers her hand with his own, then pulls away. Shouts ride on the wind from somewhere near the gates.  
  
They creep towards the commotion. Thankfully, nobody’s looking up. They’re too preoccupied by the soldiers, many in power armor, patrolling the streets. Kaelyn freezes when a patrol turns down street below them on the outskirts of town.  
  
Her blood turns to icewater in her veins.  
  
It’s the Brotherhood.  
  
Accompanied by a duo of disgruntled security officers, a scribe bangs on a door and demands entry. “You are to submit to an inspection, by order of the Brotherhood.”  
  
The occupant tries to slam their door shut and gets the scribe’s boot.  
  
The knight lifts their rifle, only for one of the officers to shove her way to the front. “Open up. Security’s orders.” Over her shoulder, she says, “You aren’t gonna find anything, so make it quick.”  
  
Dogmeat snuffles near a door that leads back into the stands. He scratches on it with a whine.  
  
“Shh!” Kaelyn presses a finger to her lips.  
  
Dogmeat scratches again, looking back at her.  
  
“Shit,” Deacon hisses. His gaze remains on the knight that lingers in the streets below them. “Open the door before he gets us caught.”  
  
Kaelyn nudges Dogmeat away, and tries the handle. Unlocked. Wondering what’s got him so worked up, she opens the door—and he takes off down the stairs.  
  
The trio share a look.  
  
A tinny cry below: “What’s that—?”  
  
They scurry inside and shut the door. Blinking in the black, remnants of sunlight and adrenaline heat the air, giving near-tangible form to the afterimages rolling across Kaelyn’s vision.  
  
Dogmeat’s nails click on the concrete so she lurches forward to follow, even blinded. “Dogmeat!”  
  
Behind her, a green light winks into existence, casting eerie shadows that linger in the corners like cobwebs. Ahead, all she can she can see is Dogmeat’s rear as he descends into the black.  
  
“What’s gotten into him?” Nate asks.  
  
Kaelyn trips over a beer can and glances down by chance. The dust has been disturbed. Recently. Dogmeat trots along the trail, ears pricked, ignoring Kaelyn’s soft call to heel.  
  
She resigns herself to whatever trouble he’s going to lead them to and checks Deliverer is loaded. Dogmeat bounds along the trail up the stairs, venturing into the dark without a shred of fear. She vaguely remembers these halls when she and Nate came to watch the game, or perhaps the darkness allows her nostalgia to conjure false memories. He leads them out to the landing, pausing by an elevator that leads up to the old exclusive cafe. She and Nate could never afford to go up there.  
  
Dogmeat looks back at them with a soft whine.  
  
“All right, boy. What’s up there that’s so important?” With a sigh, Kaelyn hits the up button.  
  
The elevator still works, and even ferries them to the top floor without incident, spitting them out at the entrance to the cafe. The doors are slightly ajar, and Dogmeat makes a beeline for them.  
  
Kaelyn touches his back to keep him from barging in and readies Deliverer. Deacon and Nate take up positions on either side of the doorway, the latter yanking Kaelyn behind him. They trade nods and Nate shoves the door in.  
  
“Hold it right— Nate?”  
  
Kaelyn’s already lowering Deliverer.   
  
Nate switches the safety back on his gun. “Nick? What are you doing up here?”  
  
“’Bout to ask ya the same thing.” He crouches to say hello to Dogmeat, who’s bounding to his side.  
  
“The main gates are closed so we found another way into the city. Dogmeat picked up your trail and wouldn’t drop it. What’s going on?”  
  
His expression turns grim. “Brotherhood’s searching the city.”  
  
“A better question,” Deacon says, “is what they’re searching for. It better not be the generators that power the city.” A shadow haunts his face, lingering in the downturned corners of his mouth.  
  
Valentine shakes his head. “Don’t know if this qualifies as better or worse, but they’re interrogating folks on the big ol’ CIT explosion and the Prydwen’s downfall.”  
  
Of course. Of course. Gossip ran free in the aftermath, as pervasive and far-reaching as radioactive fallout, and now they’re paying the price. Kaelyn really wishes Piper retracted her story about the Institute’s destruction.  
  
Kaelyn draws in one breath. Two.  
  
Nate shifts beside her, confused by the sudden plummet in the room’s atmosphere. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing up here, Nick.”  
  
Valentine chuckles once. “That’s right, you’ve never had the joy of meetin’ the Brotherhood. ‘Technology is dangerous’ and ‘only the Brotherhood can safely use it’ and ‘synths are abominations’.”  
  
He grimaces. “Friendly.”  
  
“Yeah, so friendly Ellie and Piper shoved me out the door and told me to hide.” From the way he hunches in his coat, shoves his hands in his pockets, he is not pleased.  
  
Kaelyn touches his arm. “It was the right call. They’d kill you on sight.”  
  
“Just worried about Ellie. Known synth associates aren’t much better than synths in the Brotherhood’s eyes.”  
  
“She can take care of herself.”  
  
Deacon waves them over to the window. “Check it out.”  
  
They all crowd by the window to get a better look, such as it is. From this distance the only things to see are stationary green blobs and smaller gray blobs. Kaelyn unshoulders her sniper rifle, leaving the safety on, and peers down the scope. In the marketplace, Brotherhood personnel are searching the stalls and occasionally taking something from inventory.  
  
“How did they get in?” Nate asks.  
  
Valentine’s eyes somehow dim. “Walked right on up and demanded entry. No one wanted to take on the power armor.”  
  
Deacon swears quietly. “Did the council sign off on this?”  
  
Valentine makes a noise of assent that’s slightly tinny.  
  
Deacon shakes his head with a chuckle. “Shit.”  
  
They can only watch while the Brotherhood of Steel patrol the streets, pulling people aside for questioning or demanding entry to dwellings. Two scribes venture into The Dugout Inn only to scuttle out ten seconds later. Kaelyn’s amusement evaporates when they find backup—a knight in power armor—and march back inside.  
  
_Don_ _’t do anything stupid, Vadim. Listen to your brother._  
  
Worse, there’s a commotion at Publick Occurrences. Piper shouts at the wealthy citizens gathered at the Upper Stands to watch. Two Brotherhood personnel try to crowd her but she yanks her arm free when one tries to grab her. A ripple goes through the watching Brotherhood knights as they go for weapons. The soldier grabs Piper again and shoves her. Reclaiming her balance, she gets in the knight’s face, yelling, and doesn’t notice the soldier behind her raising his rifle.  
  
Kaelyn slides her finger inside the trigger guard of her rifle—  
  
A grizzled knight in power armor stomps over to the altercation and quells it with a few words. As he turns away, Kaelyn glimpses the rank bars on his bracer. A paladin.  
  
That same paladin barks orders for his people to assemble and consults with the watching council. Under the eyes of the city, he leads his people to the marketplace gates. They vanish one by one down the stairs, unable to walk two abreast with so many of their number in power armor.  
  
Kaelyn sets her scope on the paladin to get a proper look at him. His hair is short and gray, and stress has scored his face with its relentless claws.  
  
The city is quiet but for the creaking. Quiet enough that all can hear the exterior gate being raised then lowered.  
  
“Time to move,” Deacon says.  
  
Valentine leads the way back down, setting a brisk pace, and his path spits them out at a quiet entrance to the field, half-hidden by the architecture of the Upper Stands, just in time to catch the tail end of the city council’s speech to the gathered citizens.  
  
The councilors stand on the elevator platform. Perhaps because it gives them a good place to be seen, or perhaps that’s too generous. Councilor Ellen says, “We understand there has been a significant disturbance today, but we ask that you return to your homes—”  
  
“After you let the Brotherhood rummage through them like a drawer?” Arturo shouts, to a swell of assenting mutters.  
  
“They stole my stock of fusion cores!” Myrna agrees. “No payment! And they threatened to ‘requisition’ Percy!”  
  
Valentine leads the way through the knot of citizens, skirting the edges as much as he can. If he’s less gentle than usual as he pushes his way through, then at least his appearance elicits relief from most people.  
  
“Nick! Glad you’re still kicking.”  
  
“Thought you were a goner, pal.”  
  
Valentine tips his hat at the well-wishers but doesn’t stop. The others follow in his wake, riding on his goodwill and the path he’s cleared.  
  
From the elevator, Councilor Thomas takes over. “We understand this has been an inconvenience for us all but it is in Diamond City’s best interests to remain on good terms with outsiders—”  
  
Kaelyn snorts. “I’m remembering that one for the Minutemen.”  
  
“—and we cannot afford to engage in hostilities with—”  
  
“Blue!” Piper pounces and drags her into a nook just a block away from Publick Occurrences. “What are you doing? You can’t be seen here! Although the Brotherhood just left, so maybe you’re in the clear.” She looks past her to Valentine. “Good to see you’re still in one piece, Nicky!”  
  
“You too, Piper. I need to get back to the agency real quick, so we’ll talk later.”  
  
“I’ll walk with you. I was going to stay with Ellie, but the tin cans wanted to scour the inside of the Publick. I needed to make sure they weren’t going to take anything they shouldn’t.” Her expression turns hard.  
  
“Is Nat okay?” Kaelyn asks.  
  
“In school with the other kids. Brotherhood left them alone, thankfully.”  
  
Once they’re out of the marketplace, the streets are empty. Valentine breaks into a jog, navigating to Third Avenue where the glowing heart beckons.  
  
He pushes open the door, pauses on the threshold. “Ellie? You in here?”  
  
Dogmeat squeezes inside the moment the door is opened wide enough, but even he pauses.  
  
The agency has been turned over and trashed. The cabinets have been emptied, their contents scattered across the floor, bearing silent testimony to the whirlwind of fury that disturbed them from their eternal rest in manila folders. Chairs have been upended and even the liquor shelf has been raided.  
  
Nate murmurs, “Someone put up a bitch of a fight.”  
  
“Nick!”  
  
Ellie darts down the stairs to sweep Valentine into a hug. It reminds Kaelyn of another day, another relieved return.  
  
Valentine wraps his arms around her. “I’m fine. They didn’t hurt you?”  
  
“Security stopped them from getting too rough, but I’m afraid the office took the brunt of it.”  
  
He releases her to survey the room. His mouth tips down at the corners as he takes in the damage. “The office is replaceable. You aren’t.”  
  
When they part, Ellie notices Nate for the first time and straightens her skirt. “Pardon me. I don’t think we’ve met.”  
  
Nate takes her hand. “Nate Prescott. Kaelyn’s husband.”  
  
Ellie doesn’t bat an eyelash at the introduction; Valentine has no doubt filled her in already. “Pleased to meet you,” she says with a firm handshake. “It’s not often we get murder victims coming back from the dead, but it’s an unusually good turn of events.”  
  
“You’re telling me,” Nate says.  
  
With five people, cleaning the office becomes a manageable task. Ellie sighs over the mess of papers and decides now’s a good time to implement a proper filing system. Kaelyn shoos Valentine away and sits on the floor to help organize the case files—first to reunite scattered pages and second to stack them in yellowed piles. After the bulk of the cleanup is done, Deacon slips out the door to scout the city.  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t realize how late it is until Valentine and Nate step through the door with Piper and several bowls of noodles. Kaelyn rises to her feet and every knot in her back makes itself known. After a thorough—and painful, stretch—she offers a hand to help Ellie up.  
  
There aren’t enough seats for everyone so Valentine takes the floor, citing his lack of squishy damageable human parts, and steers Kaelyn and Ellie to the chairs. While Deacon and Piper commandeer the desk, Kaelyn sinks into the chair, sliding halfway down, until an ache in her lower back reminds her she should sit properly. Nate rests his hands on her shoulders, probing at her stiff muscles with his thumbs. As much as she appreciates it, she shoos him to eat his dinner before it gets cold.  
  
“Do we know what they wanted from the agency?” Valentine asks.  
  
Ellie sets her noodle bowl on the desk. “They wanted to know about you, which isn’t a surprise. They also heard rumors you run with Kaelyn, and that you were both involved in the explosion at CIT. I’m sorry, Kaelyn, but they took your case file.”  
  
Dread clamps down on her chest, catching her in its black maw. All the fear and hurt she’s poured out in this very chair, with all the vulnerability it entailed, is now in the Brotherhood’s hands. “You couldn’t do anything to stop them. Was there anything else?”  
  
“They wanted to know about the Railroad. When I told them Nick isn’t involved with them, they didn’t believe me. It took some convincing—by security—for them to drop it.” Ellie looks Kaelyn right in the eye.  
  
She’d never mentioned her connections, or how she’d occasionally pulled Valentine into the Railroad’s shenanigans to Ellie, but she’d been a fool to think Ellie hadn’t known.  
  
Deacon affects a nonchalant shrug. “What the hell, it was getting too easy anyway.”

—

It takes another day to get the agency cleaned up. Valentine ushers all the humans outside in the afternoon to ‘get some sunshine’. While Deacon makes himself scarce and Ellie wanders the market, Kaelyn raps on the door to Publick Occurrences with Nate beside her.  
  
Piper is thrilled by the news Kaelyn originally arrived to bring. “The Minutemen are seriously calling for all the settlements to meet? Do you know what this could mean for the Commonwealth? Now that the Institute isn’t around to pull strings from the shadows, we might actually have a chance.” She pats down her coat pockets, finds a notebook and pencil, and accompanies Kaelyn to the Upper Stands.  
  
Outside the council chambers, Kaelyn takes a moment to smooth the worst of the wrinkles from her shirt, wishing she’d thought to take a shower. Made herself look more presentable. Maybe she should have come in full Minutemen raiment, just to drive the point home.  
  
Nate takes her shoulders. “You’ve got this, hon. Now get in there and work your magic.”  
  
The council is already in session, and a quiet word with Geneva nets them an appointment. When it’s their turn to be heard, Nate shoos Kaelyn and Piper with a smile, keeping Dogmeat by his side. Inside, Piper leans against the wall, scribbling madly as Kaelyn delivers her proposal to the council.  
  
“We’ve heard rumors of such talks.” Councilor Alfredo leans forward in his seat. “Why was Bunker Hill informed of these proceedings before Diamond City? As the great green jewel of the Commonwealth, we are best suited to host any such talks.”  
  
Lacing her hands over her stomach, Kaelyn gives the councilors a bland smile. Upper Standers, the lot of them. It’s a pity snobbery didn’t die with Boston’s old upper crust. “I assure you the order we’ve visited the major settlements is coincidental. If Diamond City was allied with the Minutemen, we could have sent word via Radio Freedom. As it is, Bunker Hill is closer to the Castle, so we’ve been heading inland from the coast.”  
  
“Does that mean Goodneighbor has also heard of this before us?” Councilor Justina’s polite little smile is and empyt gesture when her eyes snap.  
  
“We were forced to detour around the Financial District, so no. That’s our next stop.”  
  
Thus mollified, the councilors put forth the motion to attend the talks—to be voted on a week from now. Bureaucracy strikes again. Kaelyn drags a protesting Piper out of the room, muttering, “Let them think they’ve got the power here.”  
  
“It should be a no-brainer! What do they have to deliberate on?”  
  
“It’s a political maneuver. If they look too eager, they lose their upper hand. Like it or no, Diamond City is the largest settlement in the Commonwealth. The closest thing to a capital we have. That gives them a lot of clout they don’t want to lose. They’ll drag their feet just because they can, to remind everyone else that they’re powerful.”  
  
Beside them, Nate shakes his head, incredulous. “Politics.”  
  
As they step onto the elevator, Piper smooths out her coat. “You got that right, Blue Two.”  
  
Back on the muddy field, Kaelyn catches Piper’s sleeve before she can disappear back into Publick Occurrences. “You’re going to plaster this all over the paper, right? Mount public pressure on the council to agree?”  
  
Piper laughs, at once giddy and anticipatory. “You gotta ask, Blue? People deserve to know what the council is voting on. Diamond City _will_ attend these talks. I’ll make sure of it. Now I’ve gotta write this up.” With a quick hug, she bounds across the street, fielding several nervous looks from guards and citizens alike. When the local reporter is excited, trouble is brewing.  
  
Back at the agency, they plan their next move with Valentine and Ellie.  
  
“It’s probably safest for you to get out of the city for a while,” Nate says, “same as us.”  
  
Kaelyn asks, “You have many new cases to pursue?”  
  
Ellie waves a hand at the mess of manila folders scattered across Valentine’s desk. “Take a look for yourself, gumshoe.”  
  
Trying to find something on Valentine’s desk is like fishing with a blunt hook and an old shoe for bait. The folders and papers slide across the surface like the slippery hides of fish, threatening to spill onto the floor before being caught. Kaelyn scans the rescued file; her eyebrows raise. “This says a settler at Westing Estate accused his neighbor of being a synth, and a week later the suspected synth went missing?”  
  
Ellie nods. “Missing person case. It’ll take more than destroying the Institute for people to calm down when it comes to synths.”  
  
There isn’t much to be done for it now, but Kaelyn files away the information, just in case. The Railroad can stand to know Westing Estate is hostile to synths, if nothing else. “We need to stop in at Goodneighbor. Should be there for a day or two before going back to the Castle, so if you hurry, Nick, you might catch us there.”  
  
Valentine nods. “I’ll meet you there if I can.”  
  
Ellie says, “Safe travels, you two.”  
  
Deacon meets them only a street away from the agency. After saying their goodbyes, they venture into the ruins. Instead of parting ways in Boston Common, Kaelyn decides to accompany Deacon back to HQ. Not all of the way, just most of the way. Even if he’s a man with a stealth boy and good instincts, he’s still just a man.  
  
“Aww, Whisper, I knew you loved me,” he teases. “It’s the face, right? Helpless to resist this mug? Speaking of, I’m probably overdue to go under the knife again. Too many people have seen this one.”  
  
Deacon has never been a fan of taking the same route twice, in order to fool any would-be stalkers, so today’s path to Old North Church is filled with detouring and backtracking. He pauses in the shadow of a crumbling brick building, eyeing the open space of Boston Public Garden.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
His smile is wistful. Pained. “Thought we might check in on Glory.”  
  
It takes a second for his meaning to register.  
  
“I thought Glory was buried in the undercroft?”  
  
“We were going to, but stumbled across this little spot and, well, you’ll see for yourself.”  
  
Nate looks between them, and confusion melts into understanding.  
  
Deacon leads them into Boston Public Garden, and they shoot at a few ferals that rise from the dead lawn. Deacon halts by one of the statues and waves a hand in a _ta-da_ gesture, even if his face is too grim to match.  
  
Gracing the top of the pedestal is an angel statue, poised with wings spread and sword aloft. Two centuries of exposure to the elements and radiation have darkened the statue’s surface to a deep green-black, but someone has gone to the effort of painting the statue’s hair white. Near the base of the pedestal is a rectangle of disturbed earth.  
  
For a moment Kaelyn can’t breathe, chest seizing with sudden grief. Glory should have been there in the rebellion. Should be here now, determined not to rest until the last of her people are safe.  
  
Deep down, Kaelyn is relieved she isn’t the one who had to bury Glory.  
  
She croaks, “I can see why you chose this spot. It’s appropriate.”  
  
“I thought so.”  
  
Kaelyn tips her head up to take in the statue. Its features are all wrong, but there’s something familiar in its unwavering determination. She clears her throat. “Hey, Glory. If you’re watching from anywhere, you’ll know we did it.” _I kept my promise._  
  
“Yeah, and we’re still kicking ass,” Deacon adds.  
  
Kaelyn chokes on a laugh.  
  
There’s a flash of auburn in the corner of her eye and Nate slides his hand through hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. He doesn’t know Glory, will never know Glory, but he knows the pain of visiting a comrade’s grave.  
  
Before they leave, Kaelyn says, “Miss you, Glory.”

—

By now her feet know this new Boston as well as the old one, which is fortunate when she isn’t in a fit state after leaving the park. Goodneighbor’s neon signs beckon them into the alley, promising squalor and sin. Deacon leaves them at the gates, vanishing into the late afternoon gloom that settles between the skyscrapers.  
  
Nate sweeps in a half-circle, surveying what used to be Scollay Square.  
  
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this,” he mutters. “Everything looks wrong, but if I squint and turn my head sideways I can see what it used to be. Then I blink and the moment’s gone.”  
  
Kaelyn knows exactly what he means. She rests her hand at the small of his back. Anything more would attract attention, which is the last thing a person ever needs in Goodneighbor. “I know, hon. I know. We just have to stop in at the Old State House and talk to the mayor, then we’re off the clock.”  
  
“If we’re on the clock, that implies we’re getting paid. Can I ask for a raise?”  
  
She chuckles. “I wish.”  
  
The streets are bristling with emerging nightlife, merchants wringing the last of the day’s profit out of their customers. Warning Nate to not touch anything, she picks her way through the crowd with care. Bumping into the wrong person and getting shivved would not be a good way to end the day.  
  
“Ah, there she is. The hero of the hour!” Sauntering towards them is one Mayor Hancock, his black eyes intent on Kaelyn. “I’ve been hoping you’d stop by.” In classic Hancock fashion, he beats her to the punch.  
  
Kaelyn says, “If it involves art galleries, torture dungeons or psychopaths, I want a pay rise.”  
  
“What?” Nate’s face scrunches.  
  
She fights a shiver. “Ask Deacon. He’ll spin it into a half-decent story.”  
  
Hancock’s chuckle is like sand sliding over tin. “Nothing that messed up today, I hope. Just wanna chat for a bit.”  
  
There’s no disobeying Mayor Hancock. Not in the bounds of Goodneighbor. After that first meeting, where he’d stabbed a man who tried to run a protection racket, she’d taken care to tread lightly around him. He turns a blind eye to Railroad activities in his territory, and Kaelyn will not be the agent to jeopardize their mutual live and let live policy.  
  
In Hancock’s spacious office, he sprawls on the couch and gestures for them to sit. Kaelyn perches on the edge of her seat and laces her fingers over her knee. Beside her, Nate watches Fahrenheit, who leans in the corner with the cozy confidence of a predator.  
  
“What can we do for you, Mayor?”  
  
“Heard you’re the one we have to thank for that explosion up at CIT.”  
  
Dammit. Cursing Piper again for running that article, Kaelyn demurs, “It was a group effort.”  
  
“I don’t doubt it. Not that you aren’t formidable, from the things I hear, but I imagine your _friends_ weren’t gonna miss out on the action.” Hancock’s expression shifts, the ropey skin of his face tightening. His voice loses its usual drawl. “And what about Diamond City? Heard the mayor was a synth and a certain somebody took him out.”  
  
With every fiber of her being Kaelyn wills Nate to keep his mouth shut and let her handle this. “He was an Institute plant, yes. I have no idea when he was replaced. We tried to arrest him but he forced our hand.”  
  
Hancock lets out a slow breath through what remains of his nose, edging into a sigh. He turns his head to look out the window, watching the goings-on of the street below. “All this time… have I been hating the wrong man?”  
  
Kaelyn remembers one of Hancock’s speeches from months ago: _we all know I_ _’ve got a beef of my own with McDonough_.  
  
This is not the reaction she would have expected at the news of McDonough’s death.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says, for lack of alternatives.  
  
Hancock’s gaze cuts to her, then, as sharp as his knife. “And the Institute—you made sure they paid in blood?”  
  
Kaelyn inclines her head. “They can’t ever replace anyone with a synth again.”  
  
Hancock grunts. “That’s something, I guess. Some people deserve a knife between the ribs and a shallow grave.”  
  
“There’s one more thing, Mayor.”  
  
What remains of Hancock’s lips peel back in a knife-thin smile at the title. “Go on.”  
  
“The Minutemen are arranging a meeting between the major settlements to discuss the future of the Commonwealth. Goodneighbor is cordially invited to attend.”  
  
“Oh?” He leans forward in his seat. “This should be good. We gonna sit in a circle and hold hands and gab about how good everything is now the Institute’s toast?”  
  
“I was thinking more along the idea of consolidating the Commonwealth into a united sovereign state, myself, but feel free to hold hands. I’d recommend attending if you want Goodneighbor and its interests to have a voice.”  
  
Hancock seems torn between amusement and incredulity. Even if the rumors swirling around him are split equally between the high-chasing ghoul, the ruthless rebel, and the best damn thing that ever happened to Goodneighbor, what she needs now is the champion of the downtrodden.  
  
Leaning forward in her seat, she rests her hands on her knees. “Look. Can I be honest? The Slog is sending a representative to the talks and I’d prefer it if there was someone to back them up.”  
  
If he still had eyebrows, one would have arched. “You mean ghouls?”  
  
“I know Preston won’t stand for harming innocent ghouls, but if this coalition takes off he may not be the ultimate power in the ‘Wealth anymore.”  
  
“Minutemen never were, if their mantra is anything to go by.” Hancock’s black eyes slide past her to stare at the peeling wallpaper while he deliberates. “Eh, what the hell. This is a chance, right? If nothing else, it’ll be fun to poke at some of the tightass reps. Count Goodneighbor in.”

—

Magnolia’s soft crooning beckons them down the stairs to The Third Rail. Despite being built in a decrepit subway tunnel, the aesthetics and acoustics are closer to a cozy little old world jazz club than anything else in the ‘Wealth. The sniper Kaelyn once hired sits at the bar, regaling an audience of two with some exploit or another. Grabbing Nate’s hand, she pulls him to the other side of the bar, hoping MacCready doesn’t recognize her.  
  
Nate heaves himself onto a chair. “Finally, some normalcy. Thought jazz would be a lost art.”  
  
“Magnolia is a singular woman,” Kaelyn says.  
  
He leans back in his seat and looks around the room. “Decor could use a little work, but some things never change. Hell, people could set up a bar in the ass-end of Alaska in the middle of a war.”  
  
That jogs Kaelyn’s memory. She casts about the room, seeking anything that will tease out the niggling thread in the back of her mind. Her gaze lands on Whitechapel Charlie.  
  
_That_ _’s_ it.  
  
Sculley. One of Nate’s old squad, now a ghoul, who she’d once stumbled into. He’d said that if she ever needed his help, she should send word through Whitechapel Charlie.  
  
Kaelyn leans into Nate’s side. “Dinner and a drink? I’ll shout.”  
  
His smile is as smoky as the air in the bar. “Could stand to relax a bit. Appreciate it.”  
  
Aware that he’s watching her, Kaelyn injects an extra swing in her hips as she crosses to the bar. If she finds a free spot at the bar as far away from that merc kid as she can, it’s surely a coincidence. Whitechapel Charlie takes her order with his usual cockney belligerence, and is even less impressed when she holds out a hand to halt him.  
  
“One moment. Gilbert Sculley said you could send word to him.”  
  
“Aye, but it’ll cost ya. I’m not a bloody postal service.”  
  
Forking over another stack of caps, Kaelyn wonders what to say. “Tell him— tell him Stewie’s alive.”  
  
Charlie harrumphes, but sweeps her caps off the counter. “Shouldn’t take long. Saw ’im just yesterday. Arsehole tried to take off without paying.”  
  
That sounds like Sculley.  
  
After a modest dinner, the song changes to something more upbeat. Sliding to his feet, Nate holds out a hand with a sultry look. “May I have this dance?”  
  
Both experienced dancers, they’d spent many nights doing the Jitterbug at the social dances, or turning in slow circles in the living room at home with a soft melody played on the radio. In fact, they’d formally met at a dance.  
  
So of course Kaelyn accepts. As Nate steers them to the cleared space in front of Magnolia’s stage, she smooths down the front of her stained shirt. Her boots thunk on the tiled metro floor, bulky and ill-suited to quick turns, reminding her at every step that she’s not appropriately dressed for the occasion. What she wouldn’t give for a swing skirt and heels right now.  
  
Magnolia winks at Kaelyn and caresses her microphone, crooning her next verse as they settle into a starting position. They start with something slow, finding the rhythm in the song, as their bodies remember the once-familiar motions. After a spin, Kaelyn asks if he’s ready for something more upbeat. His response is a quick smile and a quicker spin, and this time Kaelyn has to take care not to overbalance in her boots. If it wasn’t so unhygienic, she’d take them off.  
  
In heavy leathers, Kaelyn isn’t game enough to try some of their more daring moves, and as an extension of her, Nate shifts to improvise the next step without lifting her up. A few other people, all ghouls, join the impromptu dance floor as the only people still alive who know the steps. Now that Kaelyn remembers the feel of it, how to keep the beat with her feet and capture the rhythm in every swing, joy bubbles up in her chest like airy champagne bubbles. Nate missteps and they both laugh, recovering quickly.  
  
He’s been many things in her life, but before he was her husband and the father of her child, he’d been her dance partner. She realizes how much she’s missed the feel of his body moving with hers in time with the beat.  
  
When the last notes of the song waver in the air, the dancers break into applause. Linking their arms together, Nate offers a quick salute to Magnolia in thanks before leading Kaelyn to the bar for another drink. The price for a pristine pre-war glass of whiskey is exorbitant, so they can only afford a shot glass to share. That merc somehow ends up one seat over, and when the ghoul separating them leaves with her drink, Nate strikes up conversation with him.  
  
Dammit.  
  
Kaelyn shuffles on her stool to lean her back against the bar and watch the entrance while the two men talk, hoping Nate’s casual chatter can keep the merc occupied. Even if Nate isn’t really flirting, not since the day she’d put the ring on his finger, MacCready still gets flustered. Normally Kaelyn would come to the kid’s rescue, but she doesn’t want to call any attention to herself. Nate eventually cottons on that he should ease up on the charm, anyway.  
  
There’s a ripple of activity by the stairs as a newcomer stalks between tables, too intent for this to be a casual outing. Kaelyn’s isn’t the only hand that strays for a weapon; she is the only one, however, that relaxes when she gets a better look at him. MacCready makes himself scarce at the first glimpse of green fatigues. Kaelyn nudges Nate, and he follows her line of sight to the ghoul that halts in front of them.  
  
For several moments Sculley gapes open-mouthed at Nate, taking in his old sergeant. Then his black eyes snap to Kaelyn. “You lied to me, Mrs P.”  
  
Nate’s on his feet in a heartbeat. “Sculley?”  
  
“What, don’t recognize my handsome mug?”  
  
Nate yanks him into a one-armed hug and Sculley returns it with equal force. He pulls back to get a better look at his old squadmate. “You have no idea how good it is to know someone else made it.”  
  
“Oh, I think I do, Sarge. Two questions. First, how the hell are you alive? And second, how the hell are you alive?”  
  
“I take it you know I was shot in Vault 111?” At Sculley’s nod, Nate continues, “Well, being refrozen kept me alive. Gave Kaelyn a hell of a surprise when she cracked open my cryo pod.”  
  
Despite himself, Sculley chuckles. “Woulda killed to see her face.”  
  
“You should have just seen yours,” Kaelyn shoots back.  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” Sculley hops onto the recently vacated stool and yells for a beer. “So, Sarge, how you likin’ this grand future of ours?”  
  
Nate tries to be positive. “It… has its moments.”  
  
Both Sculley and Kaelyn choke down snickers.  
  
“That’s one way of puttin’ it. But there is one good thing in all this, I just realized. I still don’t have to salute you!” Sculley slings a wiry arm around Nate’s neck. “You’re just Stewie.”  
  
“Right.” Nate looks less than impressed, to put it mildly. “So you’ve survived all this time, right?”  
  
“You’re lookin’ at genuine pre-war goods, buddy.”  
  
“So you know what exactly happened when the bombs dropped? We didn’t—see much at Sanctuary Hills. It all happened so fast…”  
  
Sculley looks down at a fascinating mystery stain on the bar. “It was bad. Real bad. Reckon you got the better end of the deal with the vault. Say, you find your boy?”  
  
By now it’s a familiar pain that rushes her, somehow hurting more when it slices through the tender scabs that have formed over her heart. Behind Nate’s shoulder, Kaelyn shakes her head. She can’t see Nate’s face from here, but she doesn’t have to.  
  
“Oh. Sorry.” That one word may be the most genuine thing that’s ever come out of his mouth. Sculley leans on the bar and continues, suddenly sly, “Rumor is the Institute was blown straight to hell. You have a hand in it?”  
  
Kaelyn makes a noise low in her throat. “Yeah.”  
  
Like the last time they met, Sculley is taken aback by her newfound ability to kill. “I, uh, well…” He clears his throat, and says, honestly, “Well done, Mrs P. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you had it in ya. Best damn news these parts have had in years. Bastards had it coming. Was this… before or after you thawed our favorite popsicle here?”  
  
She looks to the ground. “Before.”  
  
No further clarification is necessary.  
  
Nate clears his throat to alleviate the sudden tension. “What… happened to Dylan? And Gina? Fox Company?”  
  
Irene Brenner—who preferred to go by Dylan—had been Nate’s best friend since high school. He’d joined the army because she’d been drafted out of med school. Gina Miller had been another close friend in their squad, as their field mechanic and power armor expert.  
  
Nate’s braver than Kaelyn to ask that question.  
  
“Miller went AWOL. Found Kenzie and the kids. Lived happily ever after, or close enough to. Take it from me, buddy, irradiated sunsets are no fun to ride into.”  
  
“And Dylan?”  
  
Sculley’s black eyes grow somehow darker. “Ask me when we’re both sloshed.”  
  
It takes time for the conversation to recover from this turn, each of its participants drifting on the grim, icy currents of history. At last, Nate ventures to lighten the mood. “This sure looks different to the last time I was here.”  
  
“What do you mean ‘the last time you were here’?” Kaelyn shoots him a narrow-eyed look.  
  
“Uh, I mean Boston, not Scollay Square!”  
  
Sculley smirks. “What, don’tcha remember the bachelor party we threw for you? Said we should rename this place Sculley Square?”  
  
Through gritted teeth, Nate says, “Sculley. Stop. Helping.”  
  
“You’re right, you’re doing a damn fine job digging a hole all on your own. I need another drink for this prime-time entertainment. Charlie!”  
  
Nate also buys another drink, but Kaelyn declines a third. She prefers to keep her senses alert, scanning the room for any trouble. While trouble isn’t forthcoming tonight, thankfully, her abstinence is rewarded when one Nick Valentine enters The Third Rail.  
  
Beside her, the men are embroiled in a discussion on whether a new baseball league can be established. Kaelyn mouths to Valentine, _save me_.  
  
He halts at the bar and tips his hat. “Evening, partner. Glad I caught up to ya.”  
  
From the set of his mouth, she just knows he’s made progress on her case. Leaving the boys to their drinks, Kaelyn and Valentine retreat to a little table with a good view of the room. At the bar, Nate throws his head back and laughs at something Sculley said. If she can give him this time for lightheartedness, she will. There’ll be enough time for worry tomorrow.  
  
“Did you find anything?”  
  
“A wounded bird showed up at Greentop Nursery, said raiders were in the area kidnapping people and to be careful. She claimed the Blue Bullets were the ones responsible for nabbing a Minutemen colonel.”  
  
“What did she look like?”  
  
“She’d already bolted before I got there, but the word is she’s bald and scarred. The gent I spoke to half-figured she coulda been a raider herself.”  
  
Spiked Boots. It had to be.  
  
Kaelyn pauses with her glass mid-way to her mouth. “She probably was. If she’s who I think she is, she broke me out and high-tailed it. You said she was wounded?”  
  
“Yeah, gut shot. Local doc patched her up, but she moved on the moment she could walk in a reasonably straight line. I did some more digging, and the Blue Bullets are known to operate in the eastern half of the Commonwealth, just north of Boston. Shakedowns and ransoms, usually. So, we’ve got a name and a territory for one half of the equation. Their motive was caps. Simple, just like them. If we can find ‘em, they might lead us to their mysterious client. Gonna poke around their territory, see if I can find their hidey hole.”  
  
Kaelyn grabs his sleeve. “Be careful, all right? I don’t want you getting hurt over this.”  
  
“I seem to recall you walking into a gang-occupied vault to secure the services of one Nick Valentine, private eye. Two can take risks for their friends.”  
  
In the sudden lull, the ambient sounds of The Third Rail expand like mints mixed with Nuka-Cola, filling the hazy air with an almost-tangible force. Nate and Sculley are halfway through a rendition of The Snows of Anchorage. A nearby table of ghouls break into exclamations, and the volume throws their conversation into focus.  
  
“Heard a patrol was sighted at Diamond City of all places—”  
  
“Did you hear about the camp at the Coast Guard Pier? Set up a new base and everything, then put out a call for survivors. Also put a bounty on any information about their airship.”  
  
“What airship? There one moment, gone the next.”  
  
Their raspy laughter grates on the air like sandpaper.  
  
Kaelyn’s hand tightens on Valentine’s arm. “Is that true? About the Brotherhood setting up a base?”  
  
“That’s the word.”  
  
She draws in one breath through her nose, then another, to calm the sudden queasiness in her stomach. “Because that’s exactly what we need right now.”  
  
“With the Brotherhood of Steel sniffing around, you be careful, all right?” It isn’t a question. Valentine covers her hand with his own—the steel one, whose metal tendons are cool against her skin.  
  
She can’t meet his eye. “Is it too much to hope they’ll slink back to wherever they came from?”  
  
“Think so,” he says. “If their stunt in DC is anything to go by.”  
  
A flash of auburn and a familiar laugh catches her attention. “Nate!” Kaelyn waves him over.  
  
He hops on a seat opposite them, settling into a casual slouch. “That’s my name.”  
  
“If a hypothetical army suffered a tremendous loss, including their main base and most of their command staff, would the survivors retreat or hold their ground?”  
  
“ _Hypothetically,_ _”_ he gives her a long look, “it would depend on their orders and the enemy’s position. If they can still complete their mission, they’d probably still try. Most likely they’d regroup, establish contact with HQ and wait for further orders.”  
  
Kaelyn and Valentine look at each other.  
  
“Aha! It isn’t hypothetical at all.” Nate leans forward. “Who’s this army?”  
  
Normally Kaelyn is thrilled by how sharp her husband is. Tonight, not so much. “The Brotherhood of Steel. We have no idea what they’re going to do now, and I don’t like having a loaded gun behind my back.”  
  
Nate arches an eyebrow at that. “Is this metaphorical gun pointed at you? It’s metaphorical, right? Please tell me it’s metaphorical.”  
  
Any survivors should have no idea she, Deacon and Tom were the culprits behind their loss. How could they, when the only people who saw them were in the police station and on the Prydwen? “No, but they have questions about the Institute and figured I’m the one to ask. The Brotherhood have their own agenda and access to old military equipment. They’ve even ‘requisitioned’ supplies from some of our settlements.”  
  
“Don’t be nervous. If they’ve been hit hard, they’ve got bigger problems right now. If they’re smart, they won’t pick any fights. DC was saber-rattling. Trying to show they need to be taken seriously, even—especially—if they’re weaker than they’re letting on.”  
  
Kaelyn hums a flat tone. “We can only hope.”  
  
“If that’s all, Sculley just bought the next round, and I don’t trust him not to drink mine when I’m not looking.”

—

The morning dawns soft yet insistent, inquisitive rays of light piercing the shroud of gray in their room at the Rexford. Nate rolls over and shoves his head over the pillow.  
  
Leaning on one elbow, Kaelyn runs her fingers over the curve of his shoulder. “Drink too much?”  
  
His voice is muffled. “Knew… I shouldn’t have done those shots.”  
  
“No,” she agrees, with enough sweetness to curdle an already nauseous stomach, “you shouldn’t have.”  
  
Voice thick with lethargy and alcohol, he groans.  
  
Eventually she coaxes him into eating breakfast, and leads her shambling husband to the Rexford’s common room. Compassion compels Kaelyn to hand Nate her sunglasses, but that’s the extent of her courtesy.  
  
Valentine isn’t the only one waiting in the lobby for his frailer human friends to emerge. Sculley lounges at a table, waving them over with a smirk. “Mornin’, sunshine! Got a job that needs doin’ so I can’t stay long.”  
  
Nate makes a rude gesture and Kaelyn is torn between tutting at his poor manners and cheering him on. She settles for ordering breakfast; there’s even a ‘hangover special’ of plain toast and water.  
  
Instead of joining them at the table, Valentine says, “Can’t stay, either. Want to pursue this lead I’ve got while it’s fresh. And I doubt your man could keep up today.” He and Kaelyn part with a quick hug and a promise to meet at the Castle.  
  
Nate picks at his breakfast, but at least sips his water when she nudges it in his direction. “Sculley, why aren’t you hungover?”  
  
Sculley’s grin slashes across his ruined face like a blade. “Found a patch of radiation and I’m right as rain.”  
  
Betrayed that his drinking partner abandoned him to suffer alone, Nate slouches low in his seat.  
  
His recovery will add another day to their stay in Goodneighbor, which means more expenses and less time to get back to the Castle. “We can’t leave until you’ve recovered from your night of debauchery.” Kaelyn massages her temples. She throws Sculley a sharp look for good measure.  
  
Sculley raises his hands. “I didn’t do nothin’.”  
  
“My husband is perfectly capable of making his own decisions.”  
  
He half-lowers his hands. “So you… don’t blame me?”  
  
“I blame you. I just blame Nate more.”  
  
Muffled by the arms over his head, Nate moans, “All of you, just… stop talking.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nora Hart belongs to ScorpioSkies, who kindly let me borrow her! Also big thanks to ScorpioSkies, as always, for betaing!
> 
> **CW for drug references in this chapter.**

When Kaelyn and Nate had first been dating, they’d gone for lunch at a cozy little diner his squad favored. When they walked in to see a few other soldiers Kaelyn only peripherally knew, Nate sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. He swore he had no idea they were going to be there, then proved it by proceeding to ignore his fellows, choosing a little table as far away from his squad’s booth as they could manage.  
  
It had been deeply flattering that Nate put his back to his fellow soldiers and kept his attention on her, only turning around to yell at them to cool it when they got too unruly.  
  
Not long after, Dylan crossed the room to lean her hip against their table. “Afternoon, Miss Singh. I hate to interrupt, Nate, but we’ve got a problem.”  
  
Even after all these years, the memory of Dylan’s eyes is clear, etched into Kaelyn’s hindbrain by then-unfamiliar survival instincts. Her gaze was focused, frowning, fearful.  
  
Nate made an irritated noise. “Can this wait, Dylan? Kinda busy here.”  
  
She leaned in closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Jackson. He’s shot himself up. I don’t know how he got his hands on psycho out here. And he’s loaded.”  
  
Between one heartbeat and the next, Nate changed. His expression glued on, warmth siphoned away to reveal the hard-eyed soldier for the first time. And as his gaze fell on Kaelyn, the corners of his eyes tightened. “Give me two minutes. Then I’ll be there.”  
  
Underneath the weight of their concern, a deep-seated unease crept up on Kaelyn. They were soldiers; they weren’t supposed to get anxious like this. She ventured, “Surely it can’t be that bad…?”  
  
“Wish it were so,” Dylan said.  
  
Nate rose to his feet with surprising care given the urgent undercurrent, and offered his hand to Kaelyn. “Sorry to cut this short, but you need to go.”  
  
On the way out, a shout caught Kaelyn’s attention. In the soldiers’ booth she recognized the black woman and white man Nate had introduced as Gina Miller and Gilbert Sculley, respectively. With them were another two unfamiliar men—one of whom was red-faced and shouting, half-risen from his seat to loom over Sculley.  
  
“You cheated, you bastard! That one was mine!”  
  
A number of other patrons looked scandalized at the foul language, while the waiter behind the cash register looked nervous. One hand rested under the counter.  
  
Nate nudged her then, and murmured, “Don’t look. He might take it personally.”  
  
As the cheery little bell atop the door dinged at their exit, Kaelyn was left wondering how anyone could be offended by a mere look. With her arm looped through Nate’s, he hurried them down the street to the taxi stop and, before she could protest, folded a number of bills into her hand.  
  
“Leave as fast as you can, all right?”  
  
She could neither afford a taxi or accept such charity, but the strange expression haunting Nate’s face left her protest stillborn in her mouth. Kaelyn tugged on his sleeve, casting about for something, anything, to prevent him from having to go back in there. “We’re still going to the dance on Saturday?”  
  
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He ducked his head to kiss her cheek and hurried away.  
  
Obviously, Nate had survived, and his squad managed to get Jackson out of a public place with no fatalities. Nate never mentioned what happened to him after that. The official story had been killed in action.  
  
So over two hundred years later, when Nate asks if they can talk somewhere private, she recognizes the shadow over his face. They sit side-by-side at the bus stop, Nate idly toying with her fingers. “Look, I know she has a number of issues that deserve help, and I know you want to help, but you have to understand how dangerous she is. I’ve seen what psycho does to people. It’s not pretty. And the messes they leave behind? Even less pretty.”  
  
Psycho is a staple among raiders and other aggressive lowlifes; more than once Kaelyn has been beset by a howling enemy with bulging eyes, tendons in their neck taut as piano strings, who wouldn’t fall no matter how many times they were shot.  
  
“I know,” she says. “But she has nowhere else to go right now. What was I supposed to do? She wouldn’t be any better off staying in that arena.”  
  
The cause of their argument, an Irish pitfighter by the name of Cait, leans in an alley beside the Combat Zone. A roaming hive of super mutants had forced them to detour around Boston Common and take shelter in what they’d thought was some kind of pub. Only it was an arena, and one of the raider patrons had taken offense at Nate’s face.  
  
Somehow, they’d not only walked out of that bar fight alive, but with one of the pit fighters in tow. Kaelyn still isn’t certain how that happened, but has a feeling they just got stiffed by the manager.  
  
Nate frowns. “I know. But what I’m saying is that you have to be careful. Doesn’t matter how lightly you tread around her. There’s only so much you can do to keep her under control. In fact, I don’t even want you trying.”  
  
“Nate, I know psycho makes people more aggressive. I know. But we can’t just leave her here.”  
  
He sighs. “I just have a bad feeling about this, is all.”  
  
Kaelyn reaches up to touch his cheek. “She just needs someone in her corner right now.”  
  
He takes both her hands. “She can have the best intentions in the world, but it only takes one slip that she can never take back. Just—be careful okay?”  
  
She squeezes his hands. “I will. Promise.”  
  
Dogmeat sniffs at Cait’s legs and her boots grind as if she’s contemplating kicking him. “Don’t look at me for anything, furball.”  
  
Kaelyn whistles for him and he bounds back to her side for a thorough ear scratching. “Who’s a good boy? You are!”  
  
Cait smirks in Nate’s direction. “Jealous, pretty boy?”  
  
“Not at all. It’ll be my turn later.”  
  
Resisting a sigh, Kaelyn checks her pip-boy’s map for the fastest route back to the Castle.  
  
Cait’s gaze fixes on the pip-boy, then darts to Nate’s wrist to find its twin. “You’re vaulties?”  
  
“That’s right,” Nate agrees. Whatever reservations he has, not one shows on his face, which is arranged in his ‘bland neighbor small talk’ expression.  
  
“But you left? Didn’t like bein’ prodded by Vault-Tec’s eggheads?”  
  
Ice spikes through Kaelyn, chilling her suddenly numb fingers. She blinks away the ghostly visage of the frosted window and confining walls. “Everyone else died.”  
  
Cait’s face hardens. “From what I hear, that ain’t unusual. So what now?” She stands with her fists swinging by her sides.  
  
Kaelyn says, “Now we’re heading back to the Castle. You’re welcome to join us if you want, or if you’d prefer to go it alone you can go your own way.”  
  
“The Minutemen? Those pushovers?” She snorts. “Can’t believe this shite.”  
  
What an excellent start.  
  
“You better believe it. Now are you coming or what?”

—

For reasons known perhaps only to herself, Cait follows them, even if she throws more than one longing look at side streets that would lead away from Kaelyn and Nate. Despite having a third pair of fighting hands, they avoid super mutant parties where they can, which occupies yet more daylight hours until they’re forced to take shelter in an apartment block.  
  
The remnants of an end table are sacrificed to start a fire, with the mostly-intact walls of the building concealing it from the road. Cait prowls the confines of their shelter, casting dark looks at her companions when she figures they aren’t watching.  
  
Kaelyn casts a wary eye over her husband and the fire. The extent of his cooking ability involves reading the back of the box. Then again, if he cooks she doesn’t have to, so she leaves it be. Kneeling by the pot, Nate asks her to fetch water from his pack. Since he’ll probably need more than water, she brings his whole bag, setting it down just outside cinder range.  
  
“Thanks, hon.” Nate kisses her cheek.  
  
Cait looks between them. “Oh, I see how it is. If you ever get bored with each other I could liven things up for you.”  
  
Nate says blandly, “I’m sure you can, ma’am.”  
  
“Ma’am? What’s this ma’am shite?”  
  
Whether or not it was a deliberate move, Cait’s indignation distracts from any further flirting, and Nate returns to cooking.  
  
Eventually, Cait approaches the fire with the wary edge of a feral dog, keeping one eye on Kaelyn and Nate while she warms herself. Despite having traveled together for a day, this is the first time she’s remained still long enough for someone to get a decent look at her. The color of her hair inhabits the space between sunset and roses. There’s still a smear of blood on her jaw, and a half-healed cut above one eyebrow, offering two more shades of red.  
  
Even then, Cait can’t sit still for long, bouncing one foot on the ground, folding then unfolding her arms. Without warning she jumps up to pace the confines of their camp again.  
  
Cait’s boiled leathers offer decent protection, even if her broad shoulders are bare to show off her impressive musculature and the scars that decorate her skin, akin to a tiger’s stripes. Such a casual intimidation attempt might work in the ring, but out here it could become a liability.  
  
Kaelyn spreads her loadout over her sleeping bag and cleans her weapons one by one. The fire isn’t so bright she trusts she won’t lose an important piece of a weapon, so everything stays on the bag when it isn’t in her hand.  
  
On her next pass of the camp, Cait curls her lip at Kaelyn’s assortment of rifles. “You know what they say about snipers?”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t rise to the bait. “Stay out of their scopes.”  
  
“Hah! And what happens when some sod come up behind you?”  
  
Kaelyn flashes Deliverer in her direction. “I still have options.”  
  
“Nothin’ beats a good ol’ fashioned swatter. C’mon, you’ve gotta know a thing or two about proper fighting.” Cait grabs at Kaelyn’s arm and she twists out of the hold the way Deacon taught her. 

“Watch it,” Nate snaps. He leans forward, intent on the scuffle, even after Kaelyn waves him off.  
  
Cait sneers. “What’s the matter, can’t throw a punch? Need your man to come to your rescue?”  
  
“What’s the matter, can’t throw a punch?”  
  
Biting down a reflexive denial, Kaelyn instead says, “You may have noticed a sniper rifle is my weapon of choice.”  
  
“Shite.” Cait paces a tight circle. “Being able to throw a punch is second only to being able to take a hit. C’mon, we’ve still got daylight. I’ll show you a thing or two.”  
  
Nate moves to step between them. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”  
  
“Don’t be daft. She couldn’t punch her way out of a paper bag. ’Sides, it’s not your choice, pretty boy. She’s a big girl, aren’tcha?”  
  
Kaelyn considers, her gaze flicking from Nate’s expression begging her to say no and the pitted marks in Cait’s elbows. “Knowing the basics can’t hurt.”  
  
Cait laughs and swats her shoulder. “You’ll hold yer own in a bar fight by the time I’m done with you.”  
  
Her words aren’t exactly comforting.  
  
Most of Kaelyn’s knowledge on hand-to-hand comes from what’s she’s gleaned from Nate’s army friends, and a few tricks Deacon taught her to slip out of holds. It’s mostly theoretical.  
  
She knows how to move on the balls of her feet, silent and fleet of foot, but stealthy deliberation has no place in a brawl where the goal is to _move_. Cait grabs Kaelyn’s wrist when she attempts a jab and twists, sending Kaelyn flying to the floor.  
  
“Don’t forget to slap the ground with your hands when you land,” Nate calls.  
  
Cait stands over her, fists on her hips. “Stop fighting like a girl—”  
  
“‘And fight like a man’?” Kaelyn finishes.  
  
Cait laughs once, a hard-edged thing. “No. You gotta fight like a woman.”  
  
“What’s the difference?” Kaelyn asks.  
  
“These blokes,” she waves a hand to Nate, “they’ve got options we don’t. They’re bigger, bulkier—and they can use it to keep you pinned down while they do as they please to ya. So,” Cait stabs a finger, “rule number one is: go straight for the kill. It’s your only option if you want to win.”  
  
Craning her neck to look up at Cait, with her broad shoulders and meaty thighs, who could easily give most men a run for their money, Kaelyn has to wonder.  
  
Under Nate’s watchful gaze, Cait demonstrates a number of quick strikes designed to cause as much damage as possible.  
  
“Longer you fight, the lower your chances of winning. So take the bastard out as fast as you—”  
  
Kaelyn lunges while Cait’s still talking and almost lands a hit, but does earn a laugh.  
  
“Now we’re talkin’!”  
  
It isn’t at all like the steady rhythm of lining up a careful shot with Deacon whispering advice and wisecracks in her ear. She has to think but there’s no _time_ to think, not when Cait’s fist is rocketing towards her face and she has to get an arm up—  
  
Kaelyn does, in fact, block the punch. Except her block is useless, and the next moment Cait’s fist connects with her jaw. The world spins, pain bursting across her face.  
  
Nate’s between them in a heartbeat, grabbing Cait’s wrist and twisting into an arm lock. He deflects her retaliatory swing with ease. “Everybody calm down. That’s enough.”  
  
Cait swears and spits. “If she can’t take one hit, I don’t know how she’s still alive.”  
  
“Nate.” Kaelyn touches his arm, and the feel of his muscles, hard and tense, startles her. “Let her go.”  
  
He does so, and Cait darts out of reach, shaking out her once-pinned arm with a growl. “How do you expect me to teach anything if yer gonna stomp in the moment anything interestin’ happens?”  
  
“You don’t teach a rookie with a punch they don’t know how to properly deflect.”  
  
“Psh. School of hard knocks is the only way to learn.”  
  
Instead of responding, Nate leads Kaelyn to the fire so he can get a better look. He tilts her chin up, ghosting his thumb over her split lip with so little pressure it doesn’t even hurt. “Any teeth loose?”  
  
Running her tongue over her teeth finds nothing loose or chipped. “How bad is the bruise?”  
  
Nate sucks his tongue between his teeth. “This time tomorrow it’ll be impressive.”  
  
Well. That went well. Kaelyn casts her gaze about for a distraction, and notices the cooking pot. “Nate?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“The water’s evaporated.”

—

When they reach the Castle, Ronnie whistles at the bruise that has since bloomed on Kaelyn’s cheek with deep violet petals, and Cait puffs herself up a bit. “You’re supposed to duck, Colonel. But it’s a good thing you’ve arrived. General wants to see you ASAP.”  
  
“How convenient. I need to check in with him about something.”  
  
“Then what are you waiting for? Shoo.” Ronnie rakes a critical eye over Cait. “Here to join, girl?”  
  
“Ha!”  
  
Ronnie shrugs. “Have it your way. Prescott—not you, Colonel, your husband—I’ve got another batch of kids to whip into shape. Could use your help.”  
  
Nate looks a bit too eager to play drill sergeant, and Cait follows him to the training yard because that’s where the action is. With Dogmeat trotting by her side, Kaelyn heads to Preston’s office, passing more people than she remembers being at the Castle. The very walls buzz with activity as a hurried clean up crew works to restore the fort to its former majesty.  
  
To no surprise, Preston’s office door is open. Knocking on the the worn wood, Kaelyn has a smile ready when he looks up from his desk. “Afternoon. Didn’t know you liked swimming.” At Preston’s confused look, she waves to the precarious stacks of paper cloaking his desk. “The water outside might be nicer than swimming in papers.”  
  
He chuckles. “Fewer rads, though. Good to see you back. How’d it go with the settlements?”  
  
“Three invitations delivered, as per your orders. Bunker Hill and Goodneighbor agreed, but Diamond City is dragging their feet. We should have word from them by the end of the week. I’d say they’re throwing their weight around just to prove they can. They don’t want to lose the affluence they have.”  
  
“Would be nice if they’d look at the big picture, not just what they can gain from it.” With a sigh, Preston stretches and paces around the room. “I swear I never saw you do this much paperwork. And with these talks to be arranged, there’s even more work to get done.”  
  
“You _can_ delegate,” Kaelyn teases.  
  
He quirks an eyebrow. “You volunteering?”  
  
“On second thoughts, I have the utmost confidence in your bureaucratic abilities.” Kaelyn leans back against Preston’s desk, her fingers curling around the edge. From its rough texture, it feels like real timber, not a veneer. Now’s the moment for the idea she’s been considering on and off since she left Mercer Safehouse. “Can I trust you?”  
  
Preston doesn’t miss a beat. “You wouldn’t even be here asking if you didn’t. Tell me what this is about.”  
  
He’s not wrong. Kaelyn draws in a breath. “You may have already worked out by now that I’m a part of the Railroad.”  
  
Preston leans on his desk beside her. “Helping synths, right? From what I heard, they don’t seem half bad. And I know your judgment is sound. So why are you telling me this now?”  
  
“I heard that Coastal Cottage is marked as a potential new settlement. Quiet, on a trade route and close to the border. We— the Railroad’s in dire need of new safehouses. I’m asking you leave this one be.”  
  
Deacon had mentioned it, oh-so-casually, on their trip to Glory’s grave. Whether or not the timing was deliberate, and whether or not she’s still an agent, she can’t get Mercer out of her mind.  
  
“From what I recall, it’s got space but only one run-down house. We’d have to do some serious building to turn it into a viable settlement…” He considers. “All right. I’ll tell the others to focus on the other spots we’ve got picked out.”  
  
She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Preston. And if you could limit the number of Minutemen exploring that area, I’d appreciate it.”  
  
Preston shifts his weight, a thoughtful frown flickering across his face. “You know, I always figured the hard part of rescuing synths was getting them out of the Institute. Once they’re in the Commonwealth, they’d be free. But it’s not that simple, is it?”  
  
Smart man. Out of all the questions he could have asked, all the ways he could have phrased it, he chose the one she can answer. “Not nearly that simple, no.” An idea occurs to her. “Preston, do synths have a place in the Minutemen?”  
  
He mulls it over. “If they’re willing to stand beside us to protect our settlements, I don’t see why not. A lot of people are still afraid of the Institute, though.”  
  
“You can help with that. I’m not suggesting making a speech or anything, but if you step in when someone is fearmongering about synths, it’ll be noticed.” Pushing off from the desk, she adds, “Don’t be surprised if more people start trickling in to join the Minutemen. We have more synths than we can safely smuggle out of the Commonwealth, so we’re in dire need of places they can go.”  
  
“Then they’re welcome in the Minutemen.”  
  
She squeezes his arm. “Thank you, Preston.”  
  
“Not much to thank me for. The Minutemen always have an open door policy. And if synths are willing to help us, it’s not so different to our usual mode of operations, right?”  
  
She smiles. “Right.”  
  
“Before you go…”  
  
Kaelyn pauses and turns back.  
  
A thoughtful frown flickers on his face. “Are there synths in the Minutemen already?”  
  
She hesitates a moment. Desdemona—or anyone in the Railroad—would castigate her for giving any synth away. And yet Preston is her friend. “Yes. But understand that I can’t tell you who they are for their safety. And I don’t even know all of them.”  
  
A frown flickers on his face. “Strange to think. If it’s that easy for a synth to sneak in… but I trust you.”  
  
“You don’t need to trust me on this. You need to trust them.”  
  
He’s slower to agree this time, considering her words. “Guess all I can do is give them a chance.”

—

The Minute’s Rest is the Castle’s exclusive bar, sitting adjacent to the mess hall. A wall of smoke and sound greets them at the entrance, and loud welcomes after that. Nate is pulled away to a squad of recruits who favour him, if only because he’s the nicest of the trainers.  
  
With that, she detaches from Nate’s side and meanders to the bar. Tonight boasts a full house, sweat and salt mingling into a peculiar tang, the place sweltering from the number of people packed in. The bar is lit by candles whose shadows are as cheery at their light.  
  
The barkeep, a woman named Bella, salutes with the dishrag in her hand. “Warning: in this bar even the general himself has to pay his tab.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Kaelyn eyes the impressive wall of bottles behind Bella with awe. She remembers when the Castle was nothing more than mortar and mud riddled with mirelurks.  
  
About five seconds after she sits down, a nearby group at the bar gets rowdy. Kaelyn knows she should tune out gossip, but her attention is now focused on the conversation like a radio tuned to a station.  
  
“I don’t know what he’s doing here!”  
  
“To torment us, clearly. Never had to do drills or anything in the old days. But now the big guy hunted me down when I tried to slip off during rifle practice.”  
  
“Think that’s bad? Look at what I got during training.” A man pushes up his sleeve to show a bruise on his wrist.  
  
“Who does he think he is bossing us around?”  
  
There’s only one person they could be referring to. Kaelyn glances around. Danse sits in the corner, in his own world, staring past the half-empty bottle in his hand.  
  
“What’s the Brotherhood doing here, anyway?” The tormented man goes to spit, but Bella slams a glass on the counter.  
  
“We don’t need ’em or their dregs,” his friend agrees.  
  
“Hey,” Kaelyn says. “He joined, the same as any of us. His past doesn’t matter.”  
  
The man meets her gaze for another moment, then two, then his eyes drop. Despite the mutinous curl of his lip, he huffs a sigh. “Got it, Colonel.”  
  
Kaelyn bequeaths every one of them with a final warning look before pushing off the counter.  
  
Danse doesn’t notice her until she stands by his table. He peers up at her, and the dark rings under his eyes betray more than the twitch in his hands as he clutches his drink. From the smell of him, this isn’t his first bottle.  
  
“Mind if I join you?”  
  
Danse takes a moment to consider, then gestures at a free seat. Either he’s not half as drunk as she thought or he never relaxes, even when he’s sloshed.  
  
Perching on the edge of her chair, she stares at her hands folded on the table. It’s easier than looking him in the eye. She needs several moments to sort through her list of conversation openers to find something appropriate. “How are you fitting in?”  
  
“I know I’m not well-liked.”  
  
Well. “If anyone’s giving you trouble, find me. Or Nate. Or Preston. We’re trying nip any hazing rituals in the bud.”  
  
“It’s been… too many years since I had to worry about hazing.” Danse’s face clouds over, as faded and gray as rain-heavy clouds marching on the horizon.  
  
She tries and fails to think of something to say. Maybe she should have brought Nate along.  
  
“I think I need to leave,” Danse says, and it speaks to the ache in her chest.  
  
“Stay. It’s only been a few weeks. It’ll take time to find your place here.”  
  
Danse shifts, but plants himself more firmly in his seat. He scowls. “Speaking from experience?”  
  
“Yes.” Maybe not the experience he expects, but she remembers those first nights out of the vault all too well. Even if they’re just the impressions her adrenaline-soaked brain was able to store, they’re enough.  
  
He stares at a stain on the tabletop. “Your son.”  
  
Kaelyn’s flinch is as good as a yes. “If I could go back, I would.” She closes her eyes to picture Sanctuary Hills, polished and chrome. To picture Shaun’s nursery. It also blocks her view of the bourbon, and how candlelight glints off the bottle like the caress of a lover. “In a heartbeat. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it was home.”  
  
Danse grunts, but it’s softer than his usual gruff. “That it was.”  
  
He offers her the bourbon, and she shakes her head. Best not test her self-control.  
  
“Look.” Kaelyn lets one palm fall on the table, and the smack catches his attention. “I don’t know why you left the Brotherhood, and I don’t need to know. I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better. But we both know there are no words for it. Just… you’re not alone in this.”  
  
“You don’t know anything about me or my struggle,” he bites back.  
  
Fighting a scoff, she forces her hands flat on the table, where salt stains mar the wood like calluses. “Maybe I know what it’s like to watch your world burn.” Then she sighs. Letting him get under her skin isn’t going to help. “That was uncalled for. I just wanted you to know that if you need anything, let me know.”  
  
As she goes to leave, his arm snaps out to grab her wrist. Every instinct screams _Brotherhood attack,_ and she locks up.  
  
Danse lets go when he sees her eyes. “I apologize.”  
  
She backs up a step, rubbing her wrist. Alcohol doesn’t dull his reflexes, and that’s terrifying.  
  
“Why are you so…?” he trails off, waving one hand in her general direction.  
  
“So what?”  
  
When Danse is drunk, his thoughtful scowl is more amusing than intimidating. “So… so… merciful?”  
  
Behind her eyes, she sees fire. The bombs. The Prydwen. The Institute. “That’s not a word that describes me.”  
  
“When you permitted me to accompany you and join the Minutemen, that abomin—” he breaks off at her sharp look, “it referred to me as a _stray.”_ He sounds almost insulted. “You even show kindness to synths. You… see something in them.”  
  
His eyes are as dark as the glass bottle, molten with reflected firelight.  
  
“I see people.”  
  
He stares at her, waiting for more. A frown flickers on his face when more isn’t forthcoming. “It can’t be that simple.”  
  
“It can be.”  
  
She looks him over, carefully, to gauge whether she should leave him be or stay. He waves a hand. “I’ve kept you enough.”  
  
So she retreats, as she always seems to, wondering if she made any difference.

—

Danse is nowhere to be found in the morning. Kaelyn keeps an eye out as she wanders the walls, even if she has to squint through the glare. The sky is draped in a clean gray shawl, thin enough that patches of blue are tantalizingly close. Nate had asked to borrow her glasses and she’d foolishly agreed before even looking out the window. Right now, Kaelyn is glad she can fall back on the honorary part of her job title.  
  
She trots down the stairs to where Nate is leading the morning routine. “Have you seen Danse?”  
  
“No, but you know who I _have_ seen? Houdini Squad.”  
  
“Houdini Squad?”  
  
He smirks. “Danse’s boys and girls are getting better with every attempt to weasel out of training. We’ll make infiltrators out of them at this rate.”  
  
If Danse’s charges are in the training yard and not attempting to _escape_ the training yard, he must be away.  
  
Kaelyn wastes another hour in the armoury before accepting what she has to do. A quiet word with Nate puts half of her latest harebrained idea in motion. She finds out which dorm Danse is assigned to and bangs on the door. There’s a faint sound that could be a groan or the door shifting in its housing.  
  
Taking it as permission, she starts to open the door—then realizes he might not be decent and draws back. “Danse? Are you in here?”  
  
This time it’s definitely a groan.  
  
Peeking through the crack in the door, she spies a human-sized lump on one bunk. She doesn’t have to venture far into the room to smell the lingering aroma of sweat and alcohol. “Danse? You didn’t show up for training today. Do you need a doctor?”  
  
He rolls over. Incidentally, away from her and the invading light. His voice is low and lethargic. “I’ll… report for duty. If I’m needed.”  
  
“If you need some recovery time today, then rest. But I want to see you up and about tomorrow.” Spying a water pitcher, Kaelyn pours him a glass and places it on the tiny bedside table. Others around the room have knick-knacks, but Danse’s is bare.  
  
“For what purpose?”  
  
A man like him needs a goal, so she gives him one. “Nate wants a sparring partner. No one here can match him.” Except for Cait, but that’s a minor detail.  
  
Danse makes a noise that might be a snort. She isn’t sure who his derision is directed at, however. “There are others. Better suited than me.”  
  
She sits on a neighboring bunk. “If all you can do is put one foot in front of another, that’s okay. But you have to stand up and keep walking. I’ll make it an order if that’s easier for you.”  
  
He shifts just enough that she can see one eye open into a slit. His voice is weary, resigned. “I’ll report for duty tomorrow.”  
  
“Thank you.” Kaelyn retreats, as she always seems to around Danse, and returns to the light outside.  
  
Danse does indeed report for duty at 0600. Kaelyn rises with Nate, curiosity warding off lethargy, and they troop into the misty courtyard to find Danse waiting for them. The fog can only do so much to conceal how haggard he looks. But he’s standing, so Kaelyn will count that as a win.  
  
She’s not sure when or how it started to matter to her. Especially when he puts her on edge.  
  
Deacon’s words haunt the fog: _you can’t do a good deed to wipe a bad one off the record._  
  
The Prydwen’s gone, whatever life he had is gone, and they’re all going to have to deal with it.  
  
“Morning,” Nate says.  
  
“You require a training partner?”  
  
“That's right. I appreciate you volunteering.”  
  
Danse looks over Nate’s shoulder to Kaelyn. “It would be more accurate to say I was volunteered.”  
  
She settles on a nearby wall to watch as they discuss a routine and warm up. Nate’s recent interest in _brushing up_ on his training, as he put it, makes Kaelyn wonder.  
  
The sun has already risen but hasn’t yet scaled the walls, leaving the courtyard in a damp salty fugue. Kaelyn shivers, while knowing she’ll be sweating soon enough.  
  
Stifling a yawn, she wonders if she should go back to bed, but then Nate starts doing push ups and she figures the view is worth it.  
  
Once they feel sufficiently warmed up, Nate and Danse enter the sparring ring and settle into ready stances. First they demonstrate the drills they’re familiar with from their respective services, and despite herself Kaelyn is fascinated by the similarities and differences wrought by two centuries. Also she likes the way Nate’s body moves. She doesn’t usually get a chance to safely admire him in action.  
  
A passing patrol loses steam halfway through the courtyard, coming to a halt beside Kaelyn. From memory, the woman’s name is Hart.  
  
“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Kaelyn asks.  
  
Hart pushes an errant lock of black hair behind her ear. Her gaze remains fixed on Danse. “Oh yeah.”  
  
When the two men are satisfied with their drill—one they choreographed using elements from their respective training—they move on to free sparring. They trade jabs, testing, circling. Even though they’re moving at half-speed, Kaelyn twitches whenever Danse gets close to landing a blow.  
  
The first time he hits Nate, Nate’s response is to grin. Realising she’d half-pushed off the wall, Kaelyn relaxes. This way she can better appreciate the flex of his arms as he deflects Danse’s next hook.  
  
Hart makes an appreciative noise beside her. Kaelyn can’t disagree.  
  
After three rounds they call it quits, retreating without turning their back on each other until they’re out of the ring. Nate looks up, and his expression turns quizzical when he realizes he has an audience. Kaelyn shrugs innocently and—  
  
An alert goes out across the Castle that a group of strangers are approaching. The Minutemen scramble to take their positions on the walls. Ronnie and Nate’s efforts have paid off, as the Minutemen are quick to assemble, and stand ready with no complaints. The farmhands working the fields have already retreated into the courtyard and the gates are barred. Kaelyn climbs the stairs two at a time to reach the battlements, halting beside Preston. It becomes obvious why the sentries called the alarm.  
  
Nate sidles closer to Kaelyn, radiating tension. “Shit.”  
  
From this distance, all that’s obvious about the travelers are their white coats. Worse, there are two black coats among them.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!
> 
> I may have goofed Commonwealth geography in this chapter, so I hereby perform an authorial handwave. I also attached this note to the wrong chapter, so I perform a second handwave.
> 
> **CW for drug references in this chapter.**

No one fires—a sharp bark from Nate sees to that—but they watch as the intruders approach. Kaelyn leans forward to get a better look. From this distance they’re hard to recognize, but her heart skips a beat at a familiar silhouette.  
  
A woman at the head of the group shouts, “Madison Li! You’ll open this gate and let us speak to your general or so help me I’ll tunnel under the walls myself!”  
  
All eyes turn to Preston. He frowns down at the one who made the threat. “This isn’t something you see every day. If they were going to attack, they wouldn’t put their science team on the front lines. So what do they want with us?”  
  
“I wish I could tell you,” Kaelyn says, with her own scowl over the battlements. The gathered scientists cluster together, with barely a laser pistol between them. The two coursers are another story. A shiver runs up her spine at the sight as phantom fingers close around her throat. But she pushes past the memory, past the pain, to examine them.  
  
X6-88 stands by Madison’s side, and if not for the breeze ruffling his cloak it would be easy to mistake him for a statue. His poise, she knows, is as much an intimidation tactic as pointing a gun at someone. But knowing he survived stirs relief in the depths of her chest.  
  
Preston’s frown deepens. His voice carries across the wall as he barks, “If they’re not attacking, we don’t shoot!” Then he yells down, “What’s your business with the Minutemen?”  
  
“Let me in and I’ll tell you!”  
  
Ronnie snorts. “Trap.”  
  
“Maybe.” Preston rakes an eye over the group again, his mouth tightening into a hard line. Even if their coats are recognizably white, they’re spattered with grime and soot. “Or maybe this is our only shot at something other than bloodshed.”  
  
Ronnie strokes her chin. “Suppose we can always shoot them later if this doesn’t work out.”  
  
Kaelyn eyes her sidelong.  
  
Preston calls down, “If you disarm, we’re open to negotiations!”  
  
That sends the gathered personnel aflutter like birds alerted to a predator. Madison’s voice still cuts above it. “Only if I can bring one bodyguard with us!”  
  
Now it’s the Minutemen’s turn to trade looks and scandalized mutters. Ronnie laughs, low and hard. “So the courser can wreak mayhem in here? Not a chance.”  
  
“If we’re talking, the coursers stay outside,” Nate says. His voice is flat as slate.  
  
Kaelyn tracks the two coursers. X6-88 is closer to Madison, and likely her choice of escort. Kaelyn never saw him during the uprising, but he has to know her role in it. They all do. In her mind’s eye she can see him standing at her shoulder, an immovable presence in the face of a storm, while she also sees the courser who almost crushed her throat.  
  
_Traitor._  
  
Whether X6 would be more or less likely to attack her than the other bodyguard, she doesn’t know.   
  
“Permitting even one inside the perimeter is a mistake,” Danse says. “Disarmed or no.”  
  
“I know X6-88,” Kaelyn says. “If he’s going to try to kill me, he’ll warn me first. Probably.”  
  
Danse’s shocked expression is only surpassed by Nate’s.  
  
“Hell of a risk.” Preston shakes his head. “I’ve seen the messes coursers are supposed to be capable of.” The Minutemen on door duty look to Preston. His soft exhale signals his decision. “Let them in. One courser can accompany them. No one carries any weapons.”  
  
Once he’s given the order, a shiver runs through Kaelyn. She prays this isn’t a mistake.  
  
“Stay here, Kaelyn,” Preston orders. “If they want you, they’re not getting you. If they want something else, they won’t appreciate you being there.”  
  
That logic can’t be argued with, especially not when Nate is staring at her, willing her to stay put.  
  
Preston leads the way down the stairs, and half of the Minutemen follow without prompting. Nate squeezes her shoulder, gives her a look, then he’s gone too. They array themselves around the courtyard, closing ranks around their general while the gates swing inward. She finds a safe position halfway up the stairs, out of immediate view but close enough that she can keep an eye on the proceedings. Even Cait and Curie have been drawn to the brewing storm.  
  
Without military discipline, the assembled Minutemen fidget and mutter. Ronnie, Nate and Danse are like rocks in a creek, immovable in the currents of fear.   
  
Madison Li, head of Advanced Systems, stalks in at the head of the group. And just behind her is X6-88.  
  
Madison is the only one not intimidated by the crowd of nervous Minutemen hovering around them. Even unaffected by months of surface living. It hasn’t worn into her the way it has her colleagues. A dozen weedy people cluster behind her, their faces thin and haunted. Two of them are children. All the horror stories of the Institute, and here they are: a group of bedraggled stragglers in soiled lab uniforms that hang like bedsheets in a half-hearted ghost costume.  
  
“Guns down!” Nate barks in his best drill sergeant voice and this time several people snap to.  
  
“That means you,” Ronnie snaps at a few who are still aiming their weapons. They scurry away under her formidable glare.  
  
Preston steps forward, breaching the no man’s land. “General Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.”  
  
Madison’s face flickers for a moment, dark gaze flitting across the array of faces. “I hadn’t heard of your promotion, General.”  
  
X6-88 also surveys the courtyard; in moments, his head turns in Kaelyn’s direction. Despite his sunglasses, she freezes.   
  
“She is here, ma’am. General or not.” Madison follows his gaze over the tense line of Minutemen.  
  
No point putting off the inevitable. Kaelyn crosses the courtyard to stand by Preston. Nate shifts half a step in front of her as she says, “That’s because it was recent.”  
  
As always, the Institute survivors double take when they recognize her, then break out in a rash of disgust and anger. A man she’s never met pushes past Madison’s warning hand to yell, “How could you do that? What we had down there was better than anything could ever be up here! Are you so stupid you don’t see the surface is dead?”  
  
It isn’t anything Kaelyn hasn’t heard before. Aware of the watching eyes, now zeroing in on the man with a questionable grasp on the meaning of dead, she raises her chin. “I’m not interested in an ideological argument fought over my son’s grave.”  
  
X6-88 doesn’t visibly react, but she senses his attention on the scene. If anyone even twitches in the man’s direction, this could get ugly.  
  
“Enough, Matthews. That’s not why we’re here.” Madison’s gaze sweeps the courtyard. Whatever she thinks of it, her face betrays nothing but suspicion.  
  
Preston says, “So why don’t you tell me why you are here?”  
  
“My people are starving, that’s why.”  
  
“Is this everyone in your group?”  
  
Madison hesitates. Nods once, just a sharp jerk of her chin.  
  
Kaelyn looks over the group with fresh eyes, counting how few of them there are. “First thing’s first,” she says. “Are you the ones who ordered two coursers to assassinate me?”  
  
For a half-second, naked surprise chases itself across not only Madison’s face, but those of the people behind her. “You survived two coursers? Wait. Of course you did. To answer your question, no. The coursers only take hit jobs from the SRB.”  
  
The same answer the other straggler groups have given. Biting back a frustrated huff, Kaelyn presses, “What about hiring raiders to kidnap me?”  
  
“I have more pressing things on my mind, such as keeping these people alive,” she flares. “If I had the caps, I assure you there are better uses than a bounty on somebody coursers can’t kill. What evidence do you have, or is the Institute a convenient scapegoat?”  
  
Ronnie drawls, “For your sake, I hope you’re not lying.”  
  
A few faces pale, which is something of a feat when they’re already white-lipped with fear. Madison raises her chin. “If you’re finished threatening us, are you ready to hear me out?”  
  
“Come on, Li, what’s the point?” a man behind her snaps, on edge. Enrico Thompson, Kaelyn realizes. “They’re just going to shoot us, or worse.”  
  
“That depends,” she says. “Are you going to give us reason to?”  
  
Madison squares her shoulders. “We’re here because we have no other option. What I’m asking from you is… sanctuary. A place to live in safety. In return, we’ll compile our research from our various projects. I have extensive experience with mechanics and water purifiers, should you have need of that.”  
  
Protests burst from the watching Minutemen.  
  
“Better to stick a shiv between their ribs and be done with it,” Cait growls. “None of this science shite.”  
  
“Their scientific knowledge would be dangerous in the wrong hands,” Danse warns. Kaelyn isn’t sure if he’s agreeing with Cait or not.  
  
“Oh, the Institute possessed considerable knowledge,” Curie sighs from where she hovers by the infirmary door. “Think of the good their research can do!”  
  
Preston calls for quiet before turning back to Madison. “You’d trust us to help you?”  
  
“My options are limited and there are children to feed. As far as I’m aware, the Minutemen weren’t involved with the Institute’s destruction.”  
  
No, but since they came assuming Kaelyn is their leader, she has to wonder what game Madison’s playing.  
  
Only a ghost of a frown haunts Preston’s face as his gaze lingers on the children. “I need to talk with my colonels. If you’ll wait here—”  
  
“Hold it.” Madison cuts a hand through the air, as if slicing through the marionette strings that hold Kaelyn’s foot aloft as she turns. “If you expect us to wait in your Castle, and you refuse, what are your intentions for us?”  
  
“You’d be free to go, of course,” Preston says. “The way I see it, this is a parlay. If we can’t come to an agreement here, then we go our separate ways.”  
  
Nate takes control of the guards—and it’s something of a blessing that he has none of the baggage anyone else has about the Institute, so he won’t tolerate any ‘accidents’.  
  
Kaelyn lets herself into Preston’s office and leans against his desk, while Dogmeat drapes himself over her feet. Ronnie goes straight for the window so she can keep a hawkish watch over the courtyard. They’re the only two colonels in residence right now. Preston circles his desk, but plants his palms on the surface instead of sitting down. “I know what my decision’s going to be. You’re probably not going to like it, but I need you both on my side.”  
  
Kaelyn suspects his answer. “Whatever it is, I’ll support you.” It isn’t a statement to make lightly, but this is Preston.  
  
Preston, who tips his head to acknowledge the depth of her trust. “We establish a settlement for them. Show them there’s a place for them on the surface, if they’ll put in a little effort.”  
  
She ruffles herself like a perched bird caught in an unexpected gust of wind. “That’s very… altruistic of you.”  
  
“Gutsy. Not to mention stupid.” Ronnie folds her arms across her chest. “But you’ve got a good head on your shoulders and we aren’t murderers.”  
  
“Maybe I’m being sentimental, but—they lost their home to a hostile force and now they’ve got to run, alone and afraid. Maybe I remember Quincy.” He looks down.  
  
It might not be to her credit, but her gut clenches at the comparison. She doesn’t want to think of them as civilians—refugees—lost in a hostile world. Except she can see the grimy-faced children in the group, clinging to their parents—and her mind skips to Shaun. Her promise to him.  
  
How a childhood without empathy is what ruined him.  
  
Kaelyn looks to the ground. “I promised Shaun I’d help any survivors, but...”  
  
“But?” Preston prompts.  
  
“I don’t know if I can. I’m still so angry. They wouldn’t want my help. But I promised him.” Her sigh signals her decision, easing the stress of deliberation from her shoulders. “All right, Preston. I trust you. If you’re convinced this group won’t do any harm, then we can agree to their terms. As long as they don’t have access to any lab equipment.”  
  
“Can I trust you to mean that?”  
  
A lump forms in her throat. “Let it— let it end here. No more revenge.”  
  
Ronnie snorts. “Touching. But better to integrate them into another settlement where they can be watched.”  
  
“What about Starlight Drive-In?” Preston consults his map. “Enough space for Madison’s people and the settlers who volunteered to build there.”  
  
Agreement reached, they’re directed to the heavily guarded side room where the Institute people have been moved to. Even if the door is open, it’s clear they’re supposed to stay put. Madison looks up at their entrance. “You’ve reached a decision?”  
  
Preston says, “You’ll have the Minutemen’s help establishing a settlement for your people.”  
  
“And I have your word my people will be safe?” Madison presses. She pins Kaelyn with her intense gaze.  
  
“You have it.”  
  
Kaelyn hastens to add, “On the condition that if your people are found to be perpetuating the Institute’s abuses, all bets are off.”  
  
“I assure you, that won’t be a problem. There’s one more condition.” Madison’s dark gaze cuts to Kaelyn. “We need protection from the Brotherhood.”  
  
Kaelyn says, “They recently suffered a crippling blow they won’t soon recover from. And if their mission in the Commonwealth was primarily to destroy the Institute, they should have no reason to send another invasion force.”  
  
She makes a noise of irritation. “You don’t know the Brotherhood like I do. I need your word you’ll protect us.”  
  
“You’ll have it,” Preston says. “The Brotherhood can’t walk over any of our settlements.”  
  
Relief cracks Madison’s face. Hers and those of several others behind her. “Good.”  
  
As they leave the Castle, X6-88 watches Kaelyn for as long as he can until his duty demands his full attention.  
  
The prospective settlers are less than thrilled by the new additions. Preston is able to allay all but the most suspicious of them, who pull out of the revival project entirely. They’re replaced by three full-time Minutemen who are chosen as peacekeepers for the settlement.  
  
Kaelyn does what she can from the sidelines, knowing it would be a bad idea to show her face around the Institute’s people. Fortunately, logistics is a shadow realm of its own, offering her the best position to work herself raw without any thanks. Establishing new settlements may be a Minutemen specialty, but the to-be settlers usually take up the work with gusto to prepare their new home.  
  
Most of the Institute people are unused to hard labor, looking to their coursers and the Minutemen to make up the difference. A number of Minutemen grumble at the prospect of helping the enemy that had terrorized the Commonwealth for decades, and several refuse outright. Nate’s ready to press them into obeying, but Preston steps in to allow anyone uncomfortable with helping the Institute remnants to excuse themselves.  
  
“Why should we have to do this for them?” someone protests. “They kidnap our people to replace with synths, and we’re breaking our backs to help them now?”  
  
“You have a point,” Kaelyn says. “We shouldn’t be doing this for them, but showing them the necessary skills so they can become self-sufficient.”  
  
That isn’t quire the answer he’d been looking for, but at least his expression is amusing.  
  
Unfortunately, in the Institute’s book, _self-sufficient_ means demanding synths take on the work. X6-88 doesn’t once refuse or complain, nor does X4-23, but from what little she sees his manner is even more clipped than Kaelyn remembers. On that point, Madison’s sharp manner is a blessing; she’s more than willing to admonish her fellows for not working hard enough.  
  
One night, Kaelyn is working late at the Castle, sorting paperwork—while the settlement’s leader permitted them to dump the Institute refugees on their laps, he’s been forwarding his people’s complaints to Kaelyn—when the back of her neck prickles.   
  
X6-88 stands in the doorway.  
  
She’s on her feet in a heartbeat, hands gripping the edge of the table in lieu of a weapon. “X6. What can I do for you?”  
  
His expression doesn’t even twitch, but she knows he’s taken account of her reaction. “I have a message from Dr Li.”  
  
“I’m surprised she could spare you.”  
  
“The risk is too high for any of her personnel to act as messenger.”  
  
Despite herself, she asks, “As if you aren’t among her most prized personnel?”  
  
It takes a half-second for X6-88 to respond, but in courser time it’s quite the delay. “Coursers are not personnel.”  
  
She raises an eyebrow. “No?”  
  
“This is an irrelevant tangent, ma’am. I have a message from Dr Li.”  
  
She almost raises her other eyebrow at being called _ma_ _’am_ again. She figured she’d lost that respect. “Of course. What is it?”  
  
X6-88 produces a thick manila folder from his coat and deposits it on her desk. Kaelyn scans the top page, which is a helpful if passive-aggressive summary of the attached reports and complaints from Li’s people, as well as a request for the parts to build a large-scale water purifier.  
  
“Thank you. I’ll sort through all this and respond ASAP.”  
  
“I will inform Dr Li.” And yet X6-88 makes no move to leave.  
  
“Was there anything else?” Her voice remains steady, but she’s more aware than ever that X6 blocks the only exit, his dark coat scant shades different to the dark doorway behind him.  
  
“One more thing.” Without waiting for her assent, he says, “I want to know if you realise what you’ve done. You haven’t just destroyed your son’s legacy, but all hope for mankind.”  
  
Kaelyn sighs. “Why do you fight for a future you’d never be allowed to partake in, if the Institute had its way?”  
  
“You refer to the Institute’s policy regarding its synths.”  
  
He’s always been a sharp one. “Amongst other things, yes. I don’t believe that you’re just a tool.”  
  
A shadow falls over his face. “Your misplaced sympathy has doomed humanity’s greatest hope.”  
  
“Why do you even care about humanity, when according to the Institute you don’t deserve the same hope we do?”  
  
“I am programmed to obey the Institute and secure its future. You have jeopardized that.”  
  
She says, “If there’s one thing I know about humanity, it’s that we always find a way to go on.”  
  
With construction underway and trusted patrols keeping an eye on the settlement, Kaelyn and Nate return to Sanctuary Hills for some rest and relaxation. On the second day, Deacon shows up with tidings from Desdemona.  
  
“So get this,” he says, leaning on the windowsill to peer into Kaelyn’s living room. “Word gets out that a bunch of Institute scientists knocked on the Castle’s door asking for a house. But that isn’t the craziest part—no, that prize is reserved for the fact the Minutemen _agreed_. Unbelievable, huh?”  
  
From the couch, Kaelyn doesn’t look up from her book. “What of it?”  
  
“You’re joking right? Tell me you’re joking.”  
  
“I can tell you I’m joking, but lying is your forte.”  
  
“Oh. Great. Just what I want to hear.” In her peripheral, Deacon shakes his head. “Dez wants to talk about it… and I use the term ‘talk’ loosely. Hope you know what you’re doing, my friend.”  
  
Sturges interrupts with summons from the Castle, and Kaelyn has never before been relieved to get away from Deacon. The message doesn’t say why she needs to return, just that it’s urgent. Worse, there’s a particular emphasis on the sign-off of _stay safe out there_.  
  
On their return, she’s immediately shunted to Preston’s office. When he gives her a tight smile in welcome, Kaelyn is already bracing for trouble. “Good to see you. You might want to sit down for this.”  
  
She takes his advice, if only because this is Preston. And because it means she can hop onto his desk. “What is it?”  
  
His face is as grim as a graveyard at dusk. “Nick radioed the Castle. Said he found what could be the gang that caught you.”

—

“You don’t have to do this.” Nate cups her face in both hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks. “If you want to sit this one out…”  
  
In the privacy of their quarters, there’s no one but Nate to see her hands balled up at her sides or the tense line of her jaw. “Not an option. I can’t deny there’s a problem anymore, and you’ll need me to confirm it was the right place.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean you have to face this before you’re ready to.” He closes his eyes. “But it’s your choice, hon.”  
  
“You’re going, aren’t you?”  
  
His grimace is all the answer she needs.   
  
“We’re a team. So we go together.” She kisses him to seal the deal. While neither of them are happy about this turn of events, for differing reasons, they accept it without further discussion.  
  
Preston assembles a squad of five to accompany them, all eager to chase after the raiders that hurt one of their own. In the outer orbit of the group is Cait, her shotgun dangling from a strap over her shoulder. When she shifts on her feet, restless in the afternoon, her pack jingles.  
  
Along the way, the squad joke and banter, Dogmeat wins over more hearts with his antics, but neither Kaelyn or Nate partake in the humor.  
  
An hour in, Cait stomps up beside Kaelyn. Up until this point, she’s stuck towards the back of the group, which is an unusual position for someone with a shotgun. “What’s all this about? Garvey only said there’d be blood. Don’t tell me a settlement needs your help?” She grimaces at the thought. “Turds deserve what they get if they can’t fight.”  
  
“Not long ago, raiders kidnapped me. I escaped on my own, and now we’re looking for answers.”  
  
Cait nods approvingly. Her eyes glitter like firelight off emeralds. “Always up for some payback.”  
  
When Kaelyn agrees, her stomach wobbles.  
  
Valentine meets them at Bunker Hill, lounging against a shack with a cigarette between his teeth. He isn’t surprised at the roundup, nor at Kaelyn’s presence. He simply nods and leads the group through the woods. What’s normally a wistful space cast in grays and browns, the oppressive heat preventing any darkness from lurking, now becomes a place where every rustle toys with Kaelyn’s nerves. The murky spaces of her memory question all she sees; did she pass this way? Didn’t she walk by that very boulder? But then, she never saw that motorcycle, tipped on its back like an upended beetle, so far away from any road it’s too memorable to miss.  
  
Valentine points with one skeletal finger to the factory crouching behind the woods. “That’s the place.”  
  
Any remaining calm splinters like bone. The squad mutter amongst themselves, and the rhythmless noise of several weapons being prepared attacks Kaelyn’s nerves like needles digging under her fingernails. A vanguard comprised of Valentine, Preston, Kaelyn and Nate crawl to a space with a better view to confirm.  
  
A broken chain-link fence marks the perimeter. The yard has been tossed, yet still features a raider gang’s distinctive decor. Their gang logo has been painted on every hood of every car sunk into the mud, painted on the the tin sheets that create a crude wall.   
  
The weight of several pairs of eyes resting on a person is a peculiar one, with no tangible heft, yet still raises the hairs on the back of Kaelyn’s neck. “I never saw the front. Only the side. But… I think this is it.”  
  
Valentine grips his revolver. “Why don’t we pay them a visit?”  
  
Someone has beaten them to the slaughter. There are a half-dozen bodies in the yard, all raiders bearing laser burns. Somehow, that’s worse than having to fight them herself.  
  
“We stick together,” Preston says. “See if it’s the same inside, and if we can confirm who did this.”  
  
They have to cross the yard first. And, ever a staple of raider decor, decaying bodies hang from meat hooks. The grisly sight earns scowls from Preston and Nick, a disgusted grimace from Nate, and a few gags from the younger Minutemen. Perhaps it speaks to how thoroughly the Wasteland has gotten under Kaelyn’s skin, that she expects such things whenever she enters a raider den.  
  
As they pass one of the corpses, bloatfly maggots crawl out of its chest cavity. The decaying face is nigh unrecognizable, but a flash of green around its gray-skin wrist catches her eye, and Kaelyn realizes who she’s looking at.   
  
She can still hear him begging as they’d dragged him out of her cell.  
  
Bile rises, as hot and acidic as the radioactive miasma in the Glowing Sea, and she bolts with a hand slapped over her mouth. Around the corner of the factory, behind an overturned truck. Doubling over, hands on her knees, she gags as her eyes water from the acid.  
  
Breathing in through her nose, Kaelyn tries to find the smell of the woods under the overwhelming taste of rot. The nearby raider bodies don’t assist in that regard, but she presses her back against a massive tire and looks to the sky.   
  
A short whine startles her. Dogmeat nudges her clammy fingers, his nose cold and wet, and leans against her side. She runs her thumb over his sloping forehead, drags her fingers through his fur, and wills her stomach to stay put.  
  
“Honey…”  
  
Kaelyn flinches. Nate hangs back, giving her space, and as much as she appreciates the thought, she waves him over.  
  
“What was that?” He rests a hand on the back of her sweaty neck, and when she leans into his side he kisses her hair.  
  
“That man— I— they dragged him out of his cell to make room for me, and—”  
  
Nate closes his eyes. His throat bobs. “Say no more.”  
  
Hooking one finger around her chin, he turns her head so he can press his forehead against hers. Such a gesture usually belongs between soldiers, being one of the few possible displays of intimacy when they’re fully kitted out. And right now her mouth is too disgusting to contemplate kissing.  
  
Kaelyn draws in one breath, then another, bolstered by the contact. At last she’s strong enough to pull away, and they return to the main group. Nobody says anything.   
  
Inside, the dingy factory and stench of rust remind her of being enclosed, penned, and she only realizes she’s stopped moving when something brushes her back. Nate’s hand.  
  
“I’m fine.” Her tone is deceptively mild in a way that grates against the tense lines of her neck.  
  
The factory floor is the same as it was when they’d torn the bag off her head, from the greasy bonfire in the center of the room, the upper catwalk from where the leader had presided, the junk that clutters the ground. More bodies litter the ground, carbonized laser wounds leaving a faint trace of ozone in the air. Not all of the corpses are human.  
  
Valentine nudges the closest synth with his shoe. It’s a second gen, like him. “There’s our confirmation it _was_ the Institute that hired them.”  
  
A few nearby Minutemen glance between the nonfunctional synths on the ground, naked and gray, and the clothed synth adjusting his hat on his head.  
  
“Unless they learned this gang was holding Kaelyn and attacked to take her,” Preston suggests from across the room.  
  
Valentine gives it some thought, then shakes his head. “This is recent. Either the Institute’s information is weeks past its use-by date, or this was a cleanup.”  
  
That jogs Kaelyn’s memory; Kellogg’s rasp grates across her ears. “The Institute doesn’t like loose ends.”  
  
Preston leads the way up the stairs to the renovated manager’s office and she almost says, no, the holding cells aren’t that way. But what they’re seeking now won’t be found in those cages. Along the way, they trip over the Blue Bullets’ leader, who died from a single shot to the back of his head. It looks like he’d been running at the time.  
  
In the leader’s room, steamer trunks and shelves overflow with stolen goods. Better yet, the old manager’s terminal is still in working condition. Preston allows his people to take what they want, but Cait has already beaten them to the punch, claiming every bottle cap she touches and collecting all the weapons she can shove in her bag.  
  
Between Valentine and Kaelyn, the terminal spills its secrets.  
  
_Damn it all. The prisoner got away somehow_ _—and if I find out which sonofabitch let her out, they_ _’ll wish they’d never been born. I sent out everyone who wasn’t drunk off their ass to search for her. We need this deal to go through. Can’t tell the buyer we lost one bloody woman. Maybe if we find someone who looks like her, they won’t know the difference…_  
  
No wonder it went so poorly for these raiders. For all their trickery, the Institute does not appreciate being on the receiving end of deceit. Kaelyn only hopes they never found a woman to take her place. But then, Sri Lankan-American women hadn’t exactly made a majority of Boston’s population even before the bombs dropped.  
  
Valentine works back through the entries, and finds an entry dated just after the failed courser attack.  
  
_Was approached in the pub at West Everett. Some guy with a white coat and the meanest bodyguard I_ _’ve ever seen. Never cracked a smile. Anyway, guy wants to hire us for a snatch job. Packing a grudge against this woman for destroying his home, but wants her captured alive. So he can finish her off himself, probably. Fair enough. Her name’s Kaelyn Prescott, and she’s some Minutemen flunkie. Also a synth sympathizer. Not sure which one’s worse._  
  
_Even if this guy_ _’s a dumbass for wearing white, his caps are good. More than good. Should be easy enough. Twenty on one are bad odds… for this woman. Minutemen need to be taken down a peg_.  
  
“West Everett, eh?” Valentine drums his fingers on the desk. “It’s old, but maybe someone’ll remember this Institute gentleman.”  
  
The old estate had changed hands months ago when the Brotherhood of Steel purged the super mutants who’d used it as a stronghold. Barely a week later, some canny—and strong-stomached—settlers had claimed the place as their own.  
  
Kaelyn’s mouth presses into a hard line. “We got what we came for. Now let’s get out of here.”

Despite few remaining hours of daylight, they travel as far as they can before making camp. The atmosphere is quiet, as it usually is after a visit to a raider den. Tonight is particularly sullen as they were denied the violent catharsis of taking out the raiders themselves. Valentine’s already a planning a trip to West Everett.  
  
Bobby, the youngest of the group, is also the best cook, and he fries slices of brahmin meat on hot rocks while the others set up a watch rotation and lay out sleeping bags. Nate claims Kaelyn’s lap as his sleeping place and tells her to wake him when dinner’s ready. She wonders if he thinks he won’t get much sleep later tonight, since she won’t. Or maybe it’s an excuse to touch her without hovering, without tipping off the others that she’s rattled.  
  
In the firelight, Cait inspects todays’ spoils and forms three piles, sorting them according to some private system. When she picks up an Institute-made pistol, she asks, “So what’s the Institute doin’ all wrapped up in this?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “They, uh, really don’t like me.”  
  
Leaning forward, a smirk broadens the planes of her face, stretching the freckles across her cheeks. “This sounds like a good story.”  
  
Nate twitches. Kaelyn clears her throat. “The Institute kidnapped our son. Did everything I could to find him, but by the time I did… it was too late.”  
  
Cait’s smirk slides off her face. “Bet their kills aren’t quick or clean. The ones who think they’re so high ‘n’ mighty, all civil-like—they’re the most rotten.”  
  
Kaelyn stares at the fire. “They didn’t kill him. It probably would have been easier if they had. They… indoctrinated him. Raised him as their own.”  
  
“How’d they manage that?”  
  
It’s the kind of story Kaelyn usually keeps to herself, not wanting to conjure the frigid ghosts of Vault 111, especially not when it raises questions about her age. And yet she finds herself saying, “You know we’re from a vault, right? This one kept its residents in cryogenic stasis. The Institute kidnapped our son, then froze us again before we could do anything.”  
  
“Shite.”  
  
Kaelyn looks down. Drags in a breath. She could use some of Cait’s fierce strength, her unwavering fury, right now. Around them life in the camp goes on as the watch changes and Bobby loses at a game of cards against Juliana.  
  
“Did you love him?”  
  
Kaelyn starts. Blinking away yellow lights that explode across her vision from staring into the fire. “Pardon?”  
  
“Did you love him? Your son?”  
  
“What kind of question is _that?_ _”_  
  
Cait’s jaw clenches. “Had to, to tear across the Commonwealth to find him.”  
  
“He was my son. I’ll always love him, no matter how it ended.”  
  
She grunts doesn’t look up from the brahmin meat she’s ripping up strip by strip. Affects disinterest. “’S what a parent’s supposed to say, yeah?”  
  
“Cait...”  
  
The other woman shoves a strip in her mouth then folds her arms tighter, tendons straining in her forearms, and looks pointedly away. Then she’s scrambling to her bag, digging through it for the stash at the bottom.  
  
Kaelyn stretches out a hand, palm down, fingers loose. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to do that.”  
  
Cait freezes, her knuckles chalky white around the syringe. But it isn’t that simple, and they both know it.  
  
In Kaelyn’s lap, Nate’s still pretending to be asleep, but his hand creeps to cover hers.  
  
Catching everyone by surprise, Cait volunteers to relieve one of the watchmen and disappears inside the car the guard had been using as cover. Kaelyn watches the fire, pretending she can’t hear the sound of a syringe depressing.

—

When Kaelyn relays all they’ve learned to Deacon, he says, “Well, one mystery down. Somewhere, somehow, the Institute have regrouped enough to not only harry our operations but enact their little revenge fantasy against you specifically. And we just un-declared a state of emergency, too. Bummer.”  
  
“Dez won’t be happy, I know, but I figure the Railroad needs whatever intel I can pass onto you.”  
  
“So I’m a glorified messenger boy, now?”  
  
Kaelyn arches an eyebrow. “Deacon, you’re a spy. You have always been a glorified messenger boy.”  
  
“I prefer master of espionage, thank you very much.” He straightens his sunglasses. “You know what? Why don’t you tell Dez this yourself. HQ would be glad to see your face again.”  
  
Taken aback, it takes Kaelyn precious seconds to formulate a response. “I’m sure they would.” There. A bland non-answer.  
  
“Come on, it’ll be great! We can recruit the drummer for our band.” Deacon slings an arm around her shoulders. “You really think you can stay away?”  
  
Kaelyn looks out the armory window to the shattered reflection of the moon bobbing on top of the ocean. “It’s over. Lifetime vacation, if retired is too harsh a word for you.”  
  
His exhale edges between a laugh and a sigh. “You know the one thing I never got the hang of? Lying to myself. Who are you trying to fool here? Not me, so that leaves you.”  
  
“You don’t think I can help out occasionally without being knee-deep in trouble?”  
  
“Course you can, and we’re damn lucky to have you. But is that really all this is? You’re acting as an agent in all but name. So why not make it official again?”  
  
It should not be as tempting as it is. “Because—”  
  
“Because?”  
  
In this moment, she hates him for dragging it out of her. “Because last time, I detonated not one but two bombs. I don’t like what war made me.”  
  
Deacon sighs. “I’d like to think our little parlor trick at the airport and CIT were a one-time show. Two-time, technically.” When she says nothing, he continues, “What’s left of the Institute have something up their sleeve, and being on a _lifetime vacation_ won’t matter to them.”  
  
“What are you going to do, blow up their newest base?”  
  
It’s easy to blame Deacon’s unreadability on his sunglasses. Eyes are easily read, and blocking off the easiest access to someone’s emotions can throw the average person. But Kaelyn knows his lying mug well enough to notice how his entire face locks up with his mouth half-quirked, affecting nonchalant sarcasm to conceal whatever he’s really feeling.  
  
She hadn’t expected that barb to sting, honestly.  
  
“You want Dez to know about the little misfortune of the Blue Bullets, you have to tell her yourself. I’m not supposed to be here; I have people to spy on in DC. No time to stop in at HQ. Later.”  
  
“Deacon—”  
  
But he’s already gone, and once he steps out the door there’s no finding him.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

It takes a day for Kaelyn to come to a decision, but when she does it’s a simple matter to follow through. She can spare a day or two from the talk preparations for this. Nate accompanies her, of course, curious to properly meet this shadowy Railroad. Dogmeat is always up for another walk, and his keen senses give them forewarning of a nearby threat more than once.  
  
At the Waterfront, buildings elbow their neighbors for room on the sidewalk. Broken windows are imprinted with jagged black stars, gaping at the street front. Atop the steeple of Old North Church, a golden bead of light serves as a beacon in the clear night.  
  
Kaelyn has barely taken a step into the courtyard when Deacon materializes nearby. “Fancy seeing you here.”  
  
If she hadn’t been raised politely, she might have bequeathed him with a rude hand gesture. “Don’t act so surprised. The Institute’s still a threat to the Railroad, so here I am.”  
  
“And you missed us. It’s okay, I’m the only one here so you can admit it. I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”  
  
“Deacon.” She grabs his sleeve, but her grip is loose enough he can easily pull away if he wishes. “Are we good?”  
  
He looks her over, then nods. “We’re good.”  
  
Nate says, “Good, because the suspense is killing me.”  
  
“Sure you want to bring him in?” Deacon asks. “Dez is touchy about security.”  
  
That is a fact Kaelyn is all too aware of, recalling her own introduction to the Railroad. “She’s just going to have to deal with it. Nate knows a lot already.”  
  
“Yee-ah, about that…” Deacon chuckles nervously. “Husband of my best friend, I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention anything about the Railroad to anybody.”  
  
“I can guarantee it,” Kaelyn says. “Honey, if you compromise the Railroad or act against it, you’re in the doghouse.”  
  
Nate holds up his hands. “Woah, woah, no need to resort to threats. My lips are sealed.”  
  
Kaelyn takes his hand and leads him into the church. She’s half-surprised they’re still here, frankly, when HQ has been compromised. Lack of options and lack of time, she supposes.  
  
Inside, Nate pauses to take in the ruined church with its broken pews and collapsed ceiling and haunted air. Meanwhile, Deacon is already ducking around the collapsed beam that conceals the stairs to the undercroft. Kaelyn doesn’t miss the way Nate glues himself to her side once they reach the labyrinthine crypt, and she holds his hand while carrying Deliverer in the other. In a stroke of fortune, no ferals have wandered in recently, so they can safely follow the green-gold glow of fungus and lanterns that serve as guides as much as the paint on the walls.  
  
Nate whistles at the Freedom Trail disc rigged as an elaborate lock, and Kaelyn stretches on her toes to cover his eyes as Deacon enters the passcode. The floodlights inside are off, and remain so. Down the stairs, voices flutter like dust to soften the chilly air.  
  
Nate makes a soft grunt of surprise as he takes in the undercroft. HQ is as bustling as ever, with agents coming and going between the tombs, and dust motes writhing in beams of waxy yellow light. New names have been written on the blackboard at the back of the room, but Kaelyn’s heart clenches when she sees High Rise and Glory.  
  
What she hadn’t anticipated is how much this feels like coming home. No, it isn’t Sanctuary, nor are these people the family she grew up with, but—all the same.  
  
Desdemona glances up from her document mountain—Kaelyn fights a sympathetic wince, knowing the pain of so much paperwork—and for a moment her expression softens.  
  
“Guess who’s back, Dez?” Deacon crows, which causes everyone in the immediate vicinity to crane their heads to look. The sudden furor of shouts and greetings keep the attention on Kaelyn as everyone reacts to their prodigal heavy. Dogmeat wanders away to greet Boxer, who obliges him with a belly rub.  
  
“Whisper!” Drummer Boy claps her shoulder and drags her further into the crypt, into the spotlight by Desdemona’s workstation. “You didn’t _really_ quit, did you? Deacon lied again, didn’t he?”  
  
“Asking if Deacon lied is like asking if the sun rose in the east this morning,” she replies, if only because she never wastes a chance to sass Deacon. “You guys been busy down here?”  
  
Desdemona’s gaze skips from Kaelyn to the strange man lurking behind her and becomes pointed, like a crow that’s just spied a sparrow in her territory. “Who’s this?”  
  
“He’s with me.” No one uses their real name in the Railroad, so there’s no need to introduce him properly.  
  
Her face hardens. “Bringing strangers into headquarters violates all of our security protocols. We need to talk, Whisper. Now.” Desdemona leads her away to PAM’s abode, and holds out a hand when Nate shifts on his feet. “You stay here. Deacon, on him.”  
  
“Sure thing, boss.” Deacon settles against one of the crypts and pats the spot beside him. Nate searches Kaelyn’s face, and whatever he sees convinces him to sit down beside him.  
  
PAM stands ready nearby, and the robot perks up when its red optic registers Kaelyn. “My algorithms predicted a seventy-six percent chance that Agent Whisper would return.”  
  
“Let me guess,” she drawls, “people bet on whether I’d come back or not.”  
  
“People were curious, yes.” Desdemona turns on her heel and any potential for any further teasing withers under the full force of her stormy gaze. “You know better than to lead a stranger into the church. Who is he and why is he here?”  
  
Time to get the awkward explanation out of the way. “He’s my husband.”  
  
Despite knowing the story of Vault 111, no shadow of surprise darkens Desdemona’s face. “So Deacon wasn’t lying after all. That still doesn’t explain what he’s doing here.”  
  
“After everything that’s happened in the past few months, he doesn’t like being separated from me. Or I him, frankly.”  
  
“Simply being your spouse doesn’t grant him the right to be here. Many of our people have families. It’s safer if they stay away.”  
  
“I couldn’t keep it a secret from him, Dez. Not when I—had to explain what happened to Shaun.”  
  
At last the hard edges to her countenance fade away, and she sighs. Rifling through her vest pocket, she withdraws a cigarette and lights up. “I understand that must have been difficult for you both.” A long pause. Then: “Is he trustworthy?”  
  
“I had a child with him.”  
  
She nods, slowly, her gaze distant as she considers. “Would he risk his life to protect synths?”  
  
“You’d have to ask him, but I’d wager the answer is yes.”  
  
“Do you think he would join the Railroad?”  
  
“Again, you’d have to ask him.” It’ll soothe a number of concerns if he does, but that’s not a decision she can make on his behalf.  
  
Even if Desdemona is appeased—barely—that still leaves Carrington waiting in the wings. His scowl is like a lobster’s claws clenched around a tiny fish. No matter Deacon’s ongoing feud with Carrington, the cantankerous doctor holds the smallest of soft spots for Kaelyn, and she him. That does not, however, let her off the hook today.  
  
“You are aware our security protocols do not exist for you to flout at your convenience!” Carrington snaps. “The vital work you’ve done for the Railroad does not put you above our rules, no matter what behavior Deacon encourages.”  
  
“I can hear you, you know!” Deacon yells from across the room.  
  
“Then consider this equally applicable to you, since you didn’t refuse them entrance as you should have!”  
  
By the time Carrington is finished chastising Kaelyn, her ears ring as if she’s been standing in the bell tower instead of the basement. She wanders back to Nate’s side, slightly dazed, where he’s talking with Dez.  
  
“If Kaelyn’s helping you, and I’m helping her, then I’m helping you by proxy. So sure, let’s make this official.”  
  
“Good.” Desdemona nods once. “Welcome to the Railroad. Before we move on to anything, you need a codename.”  
  
Nate glances sideways at Kaelyn. “So that’s why they’ve been calling you Whisper.” He hums, thoughtful. “Okay, let’s see, what sounds cool… I’ve got it. Sentinel!”  
  
Well, it isn’t an inaccurate name, even if he seems a little too excited by this spy business. Once his name is written on the chalkboard, the induction is more or less complete.  
  
While Desdemona gives Nate the run down, and Carrington stalks over to keep himself in the loop, Kaelyn wanders over to the blackboard to take a look at the updated agent list. Above _Sentinel_ , _Phoenix_ and _Expat_ are both present, though the latter has an asterisk beside their name. There’s also a Scrapper. Kaelyn makes a mental note to ask if Scrapper and Boxer have met. The jokes would write themselves.  
  
Kaelyn briefly touches _Glory_ , her fingertips leaving marks in the chalk.  
  
Beside the blackboard, a new map of the Commonwealth has been pinned up. She can tell it’s new because Deacon and Tinker Tom haven’t swamped it in graffiti yet. Interestingly, there are a number of colored pins stuck at various locations. Kaelyn stares at them but can’t detect a pattern. “What’s this?”  
  
Deacon says, “We’ve been tracking Institute sightings. Red for confirmed, green for rumored.”  
  
Kaelyn scans over the map. Sunshine Tidings Co-op is marked in red, as is the run-in they’d had with that rogue scientist group and the Minutemen squad. There are a dozen or so in total, some annotated with _s_ for synth or _h_ for human. “PAM, have you been able to make sense of this?”  
  
The robot, who’d wandered out of its own accord, presumably to investigate the racket, fixes its optic sensor on the map. “Based in input data, there are two patterns of sightings. Eighty nine percent chance the first category are random encounters with lost humans. Seventy two chance that the remaining are seeking building materials. Fifty nine percent chance the resources are for a technological construction, but I cannot extrapolate what.”  
  
“Building materials?” Kaelyn looks at the map again, and runs her fingers along the roads winding between the pins. No pattern emerges to her eye, so she’ll have to take PAM’s word on it. Deacon places a red pin just above Kaelyn’s finger.  
  
“We also found confirmation that the Institute hired raiders to kidnap me. The gang was hired at West Everett.”  
  
“Raiders?” Drummer Boy’s face scrunches. “Since when do they hire raiders to do their dirty work for them?”  
  
Carrington presses his fingers to his chin while he thinks. “It isn’t normal for the Institute to use intermediaries like this. We know they have surface contacts who pass on intelligence for caps, but abduction is never trusted to any but their own people.”  
  
“Guess they’ve run out of people,” Nate jokes.  
  
That’s it.  
  
Kaelyn stills. “First they sent two coursers after me, presumably to kill me. When they failed, it was probably a crippling blow. How many coursers can they have left? Not enough that they can afford to waste them. But raiders are expendable.”  
  
“Didn’t you say the raiders were ordered to capture you alive?” Carrington frowns. At her assent, he asks, “Why send two coursers to assassinate only to then order raiders take you alive? What changed?”  
  
Kaelyn leans heavily on the tomb-turned-desk. “Dammit. I don’t know. None of this makes any sense.”  
  
“It does make sense; we simply lack the information required to understand their motivations. I daresay, however, that we are still at threat. As I’ve said before, we need to evacuate to somewhere more secure.” Carrington gives Dez a pointed look at this last part.  
  
She waves a hand. “We’ll discuss that later. For now, we need to uncover where the remnants of the Institute are hiding. They’ve been kidnapping every synth they can get their hands on and killing our agents.”  
  
Kaelyn frowns. “Not to underestimate the power of indoctrination, but the Institute can’t wipe the memories any rebellious synths. If they’re taking synths who want their freedom, how can they keep them under control?”  
  
Carrington’s mouth pinches. “As you just said, their conditioning can be difficult to overcome. In any event, I wager we’ll find out. We need to know who we’re up against and where they’re based.”  
  
Deacon coughs, his head tilting in Kaelyn’s direction. She shoots him a look that promises vengeance if he opens his mouth.  
  
Alas, Desdemona notices.  
  
In the undercroft, the magnetizing force of her glare is all-encompassing. “It’s true, isn’t it? The Minutemen took in Institute survivors. What were you _thinking,_ Whisper?”  
  
Kaelyn lifts her chin. “You’re the one who let a former Institute teenager into the fold. You gave Expat a second chance. I’m doing the same.”  
  
“Expat is isolated at their assignment. They’re one person who has come to recognize the humanity of synths. And they still aren’t assigned tasks that put them in contact with synths. That’s not the same as inviting a group of scientists to cement their place in the Commonwealth.”  
  
Well, if Kaelyn’s committed to this, she may as well go all the way. She did promise Shaun, after all.  
  
She takes a step closer, lowers her voice. “When we fought that rebellion, we evacuated every person we could, whether they were synth or human. I didn’t do that just to let them die up here. Besides, this keeps them where we can see them. Believe me, the Minutemen are watching.”  
  
“And we are, too.” Desdemona’s mouth thins into a hard line. “You’re certain these people aren’t involved in hitting our caravans? The movements against you personally?”  
  
“They all denied it. If anyone from this group was behind it, best keep them where we can find them.”  
  
Desdemona is by no means assuaged, but accepts the exact location of the settlement as a consolation prize. Along with a warning that the Railroad must consult Kaelyn with any evidence against this particular group before acting against them.  
  
With PAM and Carrington present, Desdemona then finds a pen and fresh paper. From the steely glint in her eye, it’s clear every scrap of intel Kaelyn gathered during her absence will be wrung out of her.  
  
Carrington beats Dez to the punch. “What can you tell us about the Institute’s remaining leadership?”  
  
“Madison Li, head of Advanced Systems, is in charge of her people at Starlight. Allie Filmore died not long before the rebellion and the vacancy was never filled. I don’t know if Justin Ayo and Clayton Holdren survived.”  
  
Desdemona’s flinty eyes narrow. “I’m not doubting you, but are you certain Fillmore is dead?”  
  
The Institute had been absurd to believe Kaelyn could keep one noncombatant safe from a company of Brotherhood soldiers when she wore no armor.  
  
Kaelyn’s jaw clenches. “I can confirm it.”  
  
By the time they’re finished interrogating Kaelyn and Nate, her stomach is audibly complaining.  
  
The return of Whisper is reason enough for HQ to break out Drinking Buddy and gather all the chairs in the undercroft into a circle. Seeing that robot again is a hoot; Kaelyn and Deacon had found it in the basement during a rescue op and Deacon begged her to bring it back to HQ. Better than languishing away in a dusty basement, he’d said, even if PAM is indifferent to the company.  
  
The Railroad’s parties are as loud as their arguments and twice as friendly. With enough booze to make dinner appetizing, they sit in clumps on all available surfaces, dealing cards or trading gossip. Dez joins in even if Carrington hunches over his desk, the sound of his teeth grinding louder than the radio. Dogmeat earns one of the best seats in the undercroft—on the lone couch—surrounded by adoring fans.  
  
Deacon is dared to take off his sunglasses, and he agrees with a too-wide smile as he turns his back on the room at large to trade his glasses for Kaelyn’s. She’s had enough to drink that she puts on his glasses without caring if she looks like an idiot.  
  
Nate watches their antics, leaning against one of the pillars with a chilled beer dangling between two fingers. When Kaelyn checks on him, he says, “Reminds me of the squad. All the trouble we used to get up to.”  
  
It’s too dark to make out the details of his face, but she knows what she’d see. Wistful longing and weary grief. Before she can respond, he continues, “You seem to fit in with these people.”  
  
“What was it Deacon said once? Just one big dysfunctional family. With guns.”  
  
“Guns that shoot railway spikes.”  
  
Underground, there’s no reference for time beyond how long it takes for the lanterns to burn down, but Kaelyn decides it’s better to quit while she’s still ahead. While many of the others are still partying, she claims one of the least moldy mattresses in HQ, tugging Nate down beside her. Dogmeat soon curls up at their feet.  
  
She rolls over to face him and touches his cheek. The shadow of grief still haunts his expression, but maybe she can offer a distraction. “So, what do you think?”  
  
“The decor is, uh, unique. And your leader is a force of her own. Gotta admire her confidence that the tomb’s residents don’t want revenge for all the coffee rings staining their lids.”  
  
Kaelyn snickers despite herself. “I’ve seen a lot of things in the Commonwealth, but that would be a new one.”  
  
In the morning, a runner drops by their corner and Whisper is summoned to another meeting.  
  
“We heard about what you did at the Compound. Thank you. Glory—” Desdemona draws in a thin breath through her nose. “Glory always said we needed to do something about it, but their pattern of abductions was too erratic to confirm an anti-synth agenda and we never had the resources to strike the place. Which is why I think you’re our best option for this next job. We’ve already had agents smuggle out the research you recovered, but there’s still one outstanding issue: Covenant itself.”  
  
Ah. They need their top heavy to do what she does best. Kaelyn’s stomach turns. “What are you asking me to do, Dez?”  
  
“We need to be sure they aren’t a threat any longer. The choice is yours as to how you go about it, but we can’t have a known anti-synth settlement breathing down our necks. Old Man Stockton has a proposal, if you want to negotiate. He’s heard rumors that Covenant has lost business since Amelia’s kidnapping—his doing, no doubt—and wants to buy out the local traders so they’ll work for him.”  
  
This trip will be cutting a fine line when they have to return to the Castle ASAP. “All right. I’ll see if I can talk them down.”  
  
Nate rolls his shoulders. “Don’t think you’re going alone, hon.”  
  
Dez nods. “Good. One more thing: take Expat with you. They could do with some mentoring. Deacon’s too busy pranking newbies to be useful.”  
  
Not for the first time, Kaelyn wonder why she’d been the exception.  
  
They leave immediately. Kaelyn is halfway to the hole in the wall when she remembers the Brotherhood collapsed the tunnel during their assault. Once they reach the surface, Nate shakes out his shoulders. “All this paranoia is getting to me.”  
  
Expat meets them at Mercer, as agreed, with Phoenix by their side. “Do you really think this is a good idea?” he asks.  
  
“We’ll find out,” Expat answers. Their gaze lingers on Kaelyn.  
  
They all say their goodbyes to Phoenix, Expat giving him a gentle shove. Dez had drawn the line at allowing any synths within a fifty foot radius of Covenant. While they wander down the road to the walled settlement, Kaelyn watches Expat out of the corner of her eye. Their inclusion here seems odd. Yes, they need mentoring, but Kaelyn suspects an ulterior motive.  
  
“Let me do the talking,” she says. Nate and Expat both agree, but neither are particularly enthused.  
  
Since her last visit, Covenant has fallen on hard times. Swanson isn’t even guarding the gates, and several turrets are broken. Marching up to the doors, Kaelyn calls, “Commonwealth Minutemen! Requesting permission to come inside. I passed your SAFE test last time I was here!”  
  
A head head pops over the barbed wire to verify. After almost a minute, the gates creak outward. Expat sticks close to Kaelyn’s side as they enter. So does Dogmeat, his ears pricked forward, detecting the sudden tension.  
  
When Swanson recognizes Kaelyn, he holds out a hand and gestures for a nearby guard to run a message. “You folks just wait here for the mayor.”  
  
Without the Compound’s subsidies, Penny has been forced to raise her prices, driving away the infant business they’ve been nurturing. The houses now have a run-down quality akin to the rest of the Wasteland. With fewer caps pouring in, they’ve had to prioritize basic necessities over upkeep of their picket fences.  
  
Nate still whistles. “Almost pre-war in here. How’d they manage this?”  
  
Expat looks around again, curious now. Covenant’s citizens stare right back.  
  
Mayor Jacobs steps out of his office and goes rigid when he sights Kaelyn. “Who let you in? More importantly, why are you back?”  
  
Showtime. Since Covenant hasn’t attacked yet, there’s at least a chance to resolve this peacefully. “From the look of this place, you’ve fallen on hard times. Let me be blunt, Mayor: Old Man Stockton has an offer for Penny, and your settlement at large. No matter that awful kidnapping that took place outside your walls, Amelia was complimentary of Penny’s skill as a merchant.”  
  
In the crowd, her green dress wrinkled and stained, Penny perks up at the flattery.  
  
“Stockton?” someone squawks.  
  
“Why should we listen to anything you have to say?” Jacobs asks.  
  
“Because you’ve all known loved ones who were killed or kidnapped by the Institute. I’ve known that too.” Beside her, Expat sucks in a breath, but Kaelyn refuses the urge to glance sideways at them. “Also because the well-being of your people is your utmost priority, I imagine.”  
  
“Well— of course I—”  
  
“Good,” she cuts him off, knowing she’s publicly cornered him. “Covenant has physical security but lacks long-term trading partnerships. Stockton seeks to remedy that by offering Covenant a place as a subsidiary. I have the contract here.”  
  
Jacobs attempts a smile through gritted teeth. “I’m afraid we’ll need an hour to read over the terms.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
This time Kaelyn opts to wait outside the walls instead of the bunkhouse, keeping an eye out for any would-be kidnappers. She’s surprised no one gets shot with tranquilizer darts. They return at the allotted time, and the township is still gathered in the mayor’s front yard.  
  
The man himself stands on the stairs to his front porch. “You said Amelia Stockton is still alive.”  
  
“That’s right.” Making a snap decision, Kaelyn drops any pretense. “No thanks to you. Do you know how they tortured people in the Compound, or do you just not care? Anything to stop the Institute, right?”  
  
Gasps echo around them like pebbles down a well. Expat’s jaw is clenched. So is Nate’s, for a different reason.  
  
Kaelyn barrels on with, “Covenant was intended to be a trap, luring in innocent people to torture for science. But there are innocent people in these walls, too, and this offer is frankly more than you deserve. I suggest you take it.”  
  
“Tell Stockton we… accept.” Jacobs all but throws one copy of the contract, signed, at her. He recognizes it as a leash, even if Penny calls it a decent offer.  
  
Once they’re safely outside the walls, Expat exhales, long and relieved. “I thought you were going to hand me over to get them on your side.”  
  
Kaelyn freezes. “What?”  
  
“That’s what they want, right? Payback against the Institute?” Their face twists. “ And what you and Dez want? To get rid of me?”  
  
“Not Dez’s style, or mine.” Kaelyn frowns. It actually stings. But under the hurt that Expat thought the Railroad wants them gone, she recognizes she hasn’t given them any reason to believe otherwise. Perhaps she can remedy that now. “You’re an agent, and you aren’t the first to have come from a less-than-ideal place. What matters is that you’re doing something now.”  
  
If she couldn’t condemn Deacon then, she can’t condemn Expat now.  
  
“Less-than-ideal? That’s what we’re calling it now?” they snap. “The Institute never tortured synths! All of my jobs with the Railroad involve working around _surfacers_ who hate synths.”  
  
“People up here fear synths because of the Institute. Sure, some—like the Brotherhood—would take the newest opportunity to fear and hate something different. But most people are afraid because their loved ones were replaced by infiltrators, or kidnapped as test subjects, or simply killed because they got in the Institute’s way. Collateral damage for the greater good.”  
  
“Easy there,” Nate intervenes. “No one’s enemies here. Let’s all take it down a notch.”  
  
Kaelyn sighs, presses the heel of her palm to her forehead. She used to be better at containing herself. “Sorry. Expat, you’re right that the Institute didn’t torture their synths like the Compound did.”  
  
They continue on in silence. Expat stalks ahead,either eager to return to Mercer or eager to put distance between them and Kaelyn. But soon they start to flag, and then fall behind.  
  
Nate calls their group to a halt and suggests a drink break. Perhaps it’s because he’s the one to say it, Expat doesn’t argue. Finding a protected spot away from the road, they sit in the shade and turn their faces to the breeze that takes the edge off lingering late afternoon heat.  
  
Nate slouches against Kaelyn’s shoulder and toys with his pip-boy. On the other side of the clearing, Expat digs through their bag, becoming more visibly frustrated the longer it takes to find their water bottle. They drain half of it in a few quick swallows and swipe a hand across their face. Kaelyn’s almost willing to believe it’s to wipe away sweat until she hears a quiet sniffle.  
  
Despite herself, Kaelyn asks, “What’s wrong?”  
  
“You—” they choke up. “You probably don’t care, but the Institute was my _home_.”  
  
Kaelyn is silent for several long moments. “If there’s anything I understand, it’s losing your home and being tossed into a wasteland. Maybe the peace and prosperity was just a veneer… but it was home.”  
  
Nate’s hand catches hers, entwining their fingers, and she wonders if he too feels a sudden tightness in his chest. He adds, “And when it all comes crashing down, that just makes it hurt more. Because there’s no competition between then and now, but everything back then seems so much better in hindsight. Even if it was bad.”  
  
Expat says nothing more, so Kaelyn lets it lie. She doesn’t realize her olive branch was accepted until they lower themselves to the ground nearby, some ten minutes later. Dogmeat plops down beside them and rests his head on their knee. They run their hands through his fur, and something softens in their face. “You were alive before the Great War,” they say. “How different is it now?”  
  
The question is sudden enough it arrows past her defenses. The old grief is a tangled mass sunk low in her chest. But such curiosity, discouraged in the Institute, isn’t something Kaelyn wants to squash. “Barely resembles the old world. Before the bombs dropped, there were so many species of plants and animals. Only one head. No radiation. Most of them went extinct, and what’s left is mostly mutated. Sometimes beyond recognition.”  
  
“All anyone ever said is that the surface is dead. I didn’t have the clearance to see any surface studies.” Expat draws their knees up to their chest. “I’ve seen rusted boxes—no, not boxes, but like boxes. On the roads, mostly. Deacon said they were cars and they were used for transport. Was he lying again?”  
  
Of course the Railroad’s newest agent is already acquainted with Deacon’s dishonest tendencies. “Cars,” she provides. “See the wheels? They were much faster and more comfortable than walking. It did _not_ take most of a day to get from Sanctuary to Boston.”  
  
Expat perks up. “Do you think you could fix them? I worked in A-Systems, so I know tech. Walking sucks.”  
  
Of course someone who grew up in a place like the Institute wouldn’t be accustomed to long-distance travel.  
  
Nate chuckles. “You’d need parts, the mechanical know-how to assemble them—and fuel.” A grim smile flickers across his face, chasing away amusement. “Don’t think the pipeline works anymore.”  
  
Expat looks between them. “I’m… missing something here, aren’t I?”  
  
“In the years leading up to the Great War, there were the Resource Wars,” he explains. “A global oil shortage led to all sorts of trouble. We had to defend an oil pipeline running down from Alaska. We needed oil to make fuel for cars.”  
  
Disappointed, Expat retreats into silence. At Nate’s suggestion they wait for nightfall to move, and Expat watches the sunset through their fingers. The heat lingers well into the evening, lolling on the brown-gray ground like a lazy dog, and they wait for the last of the day’s light to leach out of the sky.  
  
Expat doesn’t stop watching the world around them, staring up at the milky shroud of stars fading into existence. “No one ever told me about the stars. I don’t think anyone even knew they existed.”  
  
Kaelyn blinks. “Really? Nobody? But the Institute ‘acquired’ talented scientists from the surface.”  
  
“Rarely,” they agree. “Madison Li actually sought us out, but she wasn’t the talkative type.”  
  
Kaelyn jolts so fast Nate makes a noise of complaint. “Madison Li was from the surface?”  
  
The head of Advanced Systems has always been cantankerous—but, Kaelyn realizes as she looks back through her memories, she lacked the sense of superiority that hung around so many others like a shawl of the finest silk.  
  
“Capital Wasteland, wherever that is. She ran from the Brotherhood of Steel.”  
  
Kaelyn grunts softly. “Can’t blame her for that. Capital Wasteland are the ruins of DC, south of here. If Deacon is to be believed. He said it’s Brotherhood-controlled territory. Apparently their headquarters are the ruins of the Pentagon.”  
  
Nate makes a strangled noise, but Expat just gives her a quizzical look.  
  
When they return to Mercer, a silhouette stands on the front porch, backlit by the lantern in the window, far behind Bones, who’s sitting at the guard post beside the road. He welcomes them back and, upon learning that Covenant is in hand, gives all three of them hearty smacks on the shoulder. Expat notices the shadow by the stairs and races to the porch to reassure Phoenix they’re alive and well.  
  
There are only five synths in residence now, which is still too many, but the establishment of June Safehouse, otherwise known as Coastal Cottage, has eased the load according to Phoenix.  
  
After an obligatory gossip-trading session, Kaelyn retreats to the back porch with her whiskey to watch liquid moonlight ripple on the lake’s surface.  
  
A nearby door creaks, and Nate’s hand rests on her back, a comfortable weight, his fingers drawing tiny circles against her shirt. “Something’s bothering you.”  
  
Kaelyn’s glad he’s behind her shoulder, where she can’t look him in the eye. “Just… we got Covenant to agree to the contract, but is it really a solution? Putting them in Stockton’s pocket only works if he has the power to influence them—or come down on them if they start up again. And that talk with Expat…” she sighs. “I lost the moral high ground a long time ago. And I’m afraid that I’m not so different to what I’m fighting.”  
  
“Why, kidnapped many people, have you? Founded a torture dungeon somewhere?”  
  
“No. I just—” Kaelyn presses the heel of her palm into an eye socket. “Killed a lot of people. There aren’t many lines I wouldn’t have crossed to find Shaun. And none of it paid off. I still don’t know what that makes me.”  
  
He’s quiet a long time, drawing circles on her back. Finally, he says, “Difference is, you were doing the right thing.”  
  
“How long until right and wrong no longer matter? If they’re using the same justifications we do, how do we know we’re right and they’re wrong?”  
  
Nate rests his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t stop asking that question.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

If word reaches Desdemona within days, it doesn’t take long for Expat to learn of the Institute’s new settlement.  
  
They show up with Phoenix at their side when Kaelyn and Nate are preparing to leave Mercer. For the first time, hope brightens their face, shining clear under three layers of grime they no longer notice. “Is it true? You gave Starlight Drive-In to my people?”  
  
At Kaelyn’s assent, they let out a squeal of excitement. “I can hardly believe it! And you stood up against the Railroad over it!”  
  
“Voice down,” Kaelyn chastises mildly.  
  
Expat, however, is the only one excited at the prospect. Beside them, Phoenix shuffles on his feet, rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”  
  
“It’ll be fine. I just want to see they’re all okay!” To Kaelyn, they say, “You’ll show me where Starlight is, won’t you?”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t even need to forbid Phoenix from coming; he promptly excuses himself to return to Mercer.  
  
Expat watches him go, chewing on their lower lip. “It’s easy to forget his life in the Institute wasn’t like mine.”  
  
“And I don’t think he wants to lose you to the Institute now,” Kaelyn says.  
  
The trio make good time in the fading days of summer. Kaelyn tips her hat at the Minutemen they pass, and even earns a few sloppy salutes in return.  
  
This is the first time she’s been to Starlight Drive-In since its renovation, and it’s far removed from the dry plans she’d scrawled on scavenged papers. The cars are gone, replaced by cabins with greater than average structural integrity. A dull roar in the distance comes from a large water purifier churning on the bank of the nearby pond, and out of its flood zone is land marked out for farming.  
  
The projector tower she and Preston once took shelter in has become a guard tower. Sunlight glints off a rifle scope and Kaelyn’s gut clenches before the Minutewoman waves down at them.  
  
On the outskirts, Kaelyn holds up a hand to halt Expat. “You’ve probably already heard three lectures about keeping our secrets, so I won’t bore you with another one.”  
  
“How generous,” they quip.  
  
Expat then bolts ahead, prompting Dogmeat to give chase, and their sudden approach startles a man so badly he almost falls in the pond. Having long since eschewed their Institute uniform for functional leathers, Expat looks more wastelander than scientist, if not for their above average height. In their getup, it takes people several seconds to recognize them.  
  
“Sade?” Janet Thompson asks. “Is that really you?”  
  
They grin. “Sure is!”  
  
Now Kaelyn has to remember not to use Expat _or_ Ripley.  
  
Nate hangs back with her, casting a wary eye over the former scientists who are attracted to the commotion. “Tell me no one’s going to come after you this time.”  
  
“Jury’s still out,” Kaelyn sighs.  
  
“Not comforting. Just how much do they hate you?”  
  
She swallows. “Enough.”  
  
Escorting a wayward survivor to the settlement won’t be enough to ease the hurt, and fair enough. Madison is still the only one who’ll talk to her. The woman herself emerges from a shack, poised to rein her people in, and stops dead when she sees the cause of the commotion. Her face actually softens, if ony around the eyes. “Sade? When you didn’t arrive at the evacuation point…”  
  
Kaelyn follows Madison back to the tiny room she’s claimed as an office. “Everything all right?” If she’s going to honor her promise to Shaun, she may as well do it properly.  
  
Madison says, “The purifier isn’t functioning at peak efficiency and I don’t have the equipment to repair it. I doubt we have enough crops planted to last us. Only two of the Bioscience people know anything about farming, but hydroponics is entirely unlike working with the soil here. Edwards and Oberly have minor injuries they’re using as an excuse not to work. That’s without getting into tensions with the other locals. We haven’t had the time for anything but priority survival tasks.”  
  
“What about making a greenhouse, then?” Nate suggests. “I’ve seen some still around, even if intact glass planes are a little hard to come by these days.”  
  
“It might work, provided we find the right materials. This would all be much easier with resources that were incinerated not long ago.”  
  
Kaelyn grits her teeth. “The Institute had the power to do so much good. Instead you harvested the Commonwealth for test subjects.”  
  
Madison’s eyes flicker. Then she looks down. “You’re right. It was selfish. We had so much technology we could have used to improve lives up here, and we did nothing.”  
  
Not for the first time, Kaelyn wonders how a practical wastelander such as her ended up in the Institute.  
  
Nate cocks an eyebrow. “Then consider this take two.”  
  
Madison eyes him properly, her eyebrows half-poised like a hawk ready to descend on a rabbit. “We haven’t been introdu— wait. In some ways, you look like… not the coloring, but his features…”  
  
“If you’re asking if I’m Shaun’s father, the answer is yes.” Nate’s voice almost remains steady on his son’s name.  
  
White lines of shock pinch her mouth. “We were told Father’s father was dead. Was that another lie?”  
  
“Not quite. Everyone apparently thought I was dead, but I gave Kaelyn a nasty shock when she opened my pod.”  
  
“I don’t know if _nasty_ is the right word for it,” Kaelyn murmurs.  
  
“I see.” Madison composes herself, then asks, “Why did you bring Sade here?”  
  
Kaelyn shrugs. “Because they wanted to come.”  
  
Her nonchalant answer does not assuage any suspicions. “You’re saying you’d bring any of our people here if they just asked?”  
  
Kaelyn shifts on her feet. Not long ago the answer had been no. “Now you’re established here and willing to abide by our agreed terms, yes. Hell, I’ll get Virgil out of the Glowing Sea if he wants to move here.”  
  
While it merely draws a quizzical look from Nate, Madison freezes. “Virgil? _Brian_ Virgil?”  
  
“He’s still alive,” Kaelyn says. “He helped me get into the Institute on the condition I brought back his FEV research and the prototype cure.”  
  
For the first time, Madison’s tone softens. But it doesn’t last when her eyes narrow. “FEV research? _Cure?_ _”_  
  
“Everything I’ve seen points to the Institute as the ones who unleashed super mutants in the Commonwealth. They were kidnapping surfacers to infect, then dumping them on the surface when their experiments failed.”  
  
Her face flashes with surprise, then hardens. “I had noticed the super mutants in the Commonwealth are different to those in the Capital. I thought it was just a local strain without a known source… but the Institute always compartmentalized research cells. For just this reason, probably. But the Institute was developing a cure?”  
  
“I’m under the impression _Virgil_ was developing a cure,” Kaelyn says.  
  
“Wait, wait.” Nate holds his hands up. “There’s a guy out there who can turn the hulking green guys back into humans? That sounds kind of important.”  
  
“Indeed,” Madison says. “I… I need to think about this.”  
  
As a part of community building, Mayor Evet Diaz and Madison both insist on a communal dinner, theoretically to build bridges between the two communities. In practice, it’s awkward. The Virgil revelation casts a shadow over Madison’s corner of the dinner table. The settlers remain wary, and cast suspicious glances at the newest Institute survivor to wind up at their settlement. Kaelyn and Nate are in the awkward position where they aren’t welcome at the table, but neither are they trusted to be left to their own devices.  
  
The only chatter comes from Expat and their friends.  
  
“Sade, how on earth have you survived on your own?” Janet asks.  
  
They purse their lips as they consider how to respond without giving away their new affiliation. “It was rough at first, but I fell in with a decent crowd.”  
  
“There’s no such thing up here,” Matthews grumbles.  
  
“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” they say, slurping down their gravy.  
  
A dozen pairs of incredulous eyes rain down judgment on their pronouncement.  
  
“You’re kidding,” Enrico says. “We spent most of our time just doing what it takes to survive! Cooking, washing, farming. It’s awful. There’s no time to do anything else. If we had a few more synths, our lives would be much easier.”  
  
Expat stiffens, their gravy sloshing out of their spoon.  
  
Meeting their eye across the room, Kaelyn shakes her head just slightly. Now’s not the time for this particular argument. They can’t risk blowing Expat’s cover.  
  
They collect themselves, if only just, and clear their throat. “You know what they did to us last time for having gen threes. What might they do this time?”  
  
Whispers break out around the table, and more than one person scowls in Kaelyn’s direction. Rather than risk a confrontation, she grabs Nate’s hand and tugs him outside.  
  
They wander out of courser hearing range before Nate talks. “You know we’re playing a dangerous game here. Not saying it won’t be worth it if everyone settles down peacefully, but…” Nate rocks on his feet, then leans in so his mouth hovers near her ear. “What’s the plan if they find any synths?”  
  
She whispers back, “We evacuate them before the Railroad gets involved.”  
  
Nate nods. “All right. Answer me this. Where do you see this heading long-term? Real talk, no PR spin. Our mutual friends in not one but two groups are waiting for these folks here to put a toe out of line. I can’t say I’m a fan of them myself—” one hand rises of its own accord to his chest, hovering over the scar Kellogg left him “—but what are you hoping to get out of this? And how hard are you gonna fight to achieve it?”  
  
Kaelyn toys with a piece of gravel under her boot. “I want to believe we can do better this time. All of us.”  
  
In the dark, his smile is ghostly, nothing more than a pale flash of what she knows to be teeth. “Nice answer. Still spin.”  
  
“You want me to say I think we’re heading for a massacre? Because I think—for now—there are enough sensible people in key positions. If we can all keep our hottest heads from doing anything stupid, this has a chance. And like it or not, the Institute’s scientific knowledge is above and beyond what we had before the war, let alone anything the Commonwealth has today.”  
  
“Keep going.”  
  
Kaelyn wonders why he’s pushing this. Discomfort weasels through her with the slick power of an eel, sifting through the mud for more answers.  
  
“The Institute… wasn’t wrong to develop science. Their problem was that they saw people as expendable.”  
  
“I hear ya. Science can be a tool or a weapon, but it depends on who’s wielding it.” Nate wraps an arm around her shoulders. “So. You want a real chance at peace, see them as people.”  
  
The quiet settles around them as soft as down and as quiet as ash. Seeing people as people, Kaelyn reflects ruefully, always seems to be the hardest thing.  
  
“We’ve got incoming.” At Kaelyn’s curious look, Nate jerks his chin towards the settlement, where one slender figure detaches from the shadows of a cabin to make a beeline for them. Kaelyn reaches for Deliverer, then relaxes when Expat’s features becomes visible. They look up at the sky and shiver. “I’m ready to go.”  
  
“Go? I thought you were going to stay here.”  
  
They scuff one foot on the gravel. “It’s the way they talk. About synths. About the Commonwealth. I never noticed it before, but… it bothers me. Besides, we have work to do. I promised Phoenix that one day he’d be safe here.”  
  
“It’s not easy coming home and realizing it isn’t what you thought it was,” Nate says.  
  
They blow out a noisy breath. “Yeah… just so you know, I’m still angry about home, but… but the Commonwealth isn’t dead like I was always told it was. There’s a future on the surface. And who knows, maybe one day we can put our scientific expertise to good use.”  
  
Kaelyn inclines her head. “I hope so. In the meantime, Phoenix will be glad to see you.”  
  
It’s too late to leave, so Kaelyn and Nate sleep on the mayor’s floor while Expat bunks with Janet. In the morning they prepare to leave after breakfast, but a swift shadow in Kaelyn’s peripheral intercepts them.  
  
X6-88.  
  
“X6,” she says.  
  
His face is stone. “Dr Li has directed me to recover Dr Virgil unharmed, if he wishes to rejoin the Institute. As you have already found him, I require your intelligence report. Ma’am.”  
  
Despite his monotone, Kaelyn senses he’s irked by having to ask her. “And if Virgil doesn’t want to come back into the fold?”  
  
“My orders are not to harm him under any circumstances.”  
  
“Dr Li isn’t SRB. Technically, you don’t answer to her.”  
  
“I serve the Institute, ma’am.”  
  
Satisfied Virgil is off the kill list, if only because Madison says so, Kaelyn answers, “Virgil’s in a cave near the Children of Atom encampment, at ground zero of the Glowing Sea. If you’re polite, they can point you in his direction. He’s human again, so you’ll need to take a hazard suit and anti-rad meds for him.”  
  
There’s the briefest pause. “I do not understand the implication of ‘again’, ma’am.”  
  
“He infected himself with FEV in order to escape and evade any coursers. I found his experimental cure and it worked.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“And on that note, you’re going to freak him out, so you’re going to need something to convince him you’re not there to assassinate him.”  
  
“Dr Li provided a message I am to deliver to him.”  
  
Given Madison’s reaction to the news of Virgil’s survival, Kaelyn can only hope the feeling is mutual. “That should help. But still, be careful with him.”  
  
Instead of terminating the interview, X6-88 remains fixed in place, twin suns burning on his opaque glasses. “As we evacuated the Institute, we found no trace of Father. What happened to him?”  
  
Beside her, Nate sucks in a breath as sharp as knives. Kaelyn can’t even breathe, not with the ghostly imprint of Shaun’s body in her arms. Worse, her ears burn with the scathing words they’d traded until none of it mattered anymore. “I wasn’t going to let him die in there.”  
  
“Father was already dying.”  
  
“Yes,” she agrees, her throat turned to sandpaper.  
  
“I want to see him,” X6-88 says.  
  
The words are quiet, clear, calm, like pebbles clattering down a well one by one.  
  
Kaelyn almost gapes. But it’s nothing compared to that of the eavesdropping Institute survivors.  
  
“What the—!”  
  
“Did I hear that correctly?”  
  
Madison is stunned to silence, her glacial face briefly melted with shock.  
  
But it’s Nate who says, “Wait, wait. You want to visit my son’s grave?”  
  
Behind his glasses, X6-88 surveys him for a long moment. Perhaps processing the ‘my son’ remark. “That is correct. Sir.”  
  
“X6-88.” Madison steps forward, her body a tense line under her jeans and green coat. It’s rather brave of her, all things considered. “You have your orders. I expect you to obey them.”  
  
Time for Kaelyn to intervene. “We can detour to Sanctuary. It’s on the way to the Glowing Sea anyway.”  
  
“You can’t just indulge synths—”  
  
Expat snorts. “You know who you’re talking to, right?”  
  
“One moment, guys.” Nate grabs Kaelyn’s elbow and steers her away from the group. When their out of hearing range—even courser range—he turns to face her. “First these coursers are trying to kill you, and now we’re bringing one home with us. I don’t know about you, but this just keeps getting stranger and stranger.”  
  
Kaelyn can’t blame him for being confused. “I feel this is the part where I make a quip about living in strange times?”  
  
Nate doesn’t appreciate the joke. “This isn’t the first time you’ve stuck your neck out for this guy in particular and hoped he won’t chop your head off. Everything I’ve seen and heard about coursers paints them as hazardous to your health. Not general-you, but _you_ -you.”  
  
Kaelyn rests her hands on his shoulders, gently massaging the tense muscles under his shirt. “X6 was my assigned bodyguard while I was in the Institute. I didn’t take the chance to know him, not when I was infiltrating for the Railroad, but…”  
  
“So you feel guilty.”  
  
“Sure. That works.” She sighs. “Nate, you probably noticed the reaction his request got. Synths aren’t supposed to ask things like that. Especially not coursers. I’m not going to help these people squash him down into a good little robot.”  
  
No one is satisfied with the arrangement, but they head out without further fuss. Nate positions himself between Kaelyn and X6-88, warding off any argument with a look. Expat hides on Kaelyn’s other side, as far away from X6-88 as they can get. They fidget as they walk, rolling their shoulders, shoving their hands in their pockets only to pull them out and hook them through their belt moments later.  
  
No one looks at each other, but Kaelyn suspects X6 is the only one with enough processing power to monitor all three of them plus their surrounds at the same time.  
  
At midmorning, Nate is the first to break the silence. “What was Shaun to you, X6?”  
  
“He was the progenitor of synthkind. His uncorrupted DNA enabled the Institute to create its greatest marvel. Synths. He was a visionary, a champion of the future. Now he is gone, and his vision is lost.”  
  
Kaelyn senses the weight of Nate’s gaze on her neck. She watches the horizon.  
  
Nate grunts softly. “Right.”  
  
Kaelyn isn’t sure what that means, but X6-88 supplies, “Because your wife, his mother, betrayed him.”  
  
She twitches. Remembers those awful rattling gasps echoing through Vault 111. “He isn’t dead because of me.”  
  
“That is as much as you can claim, ma’am.”  
  
In her peripheral, Expat’s mouth tightens like a bowstring. They interject the way a mouse scurries into a room, small and quiet. “Uh, maybe you shouldn’t provoke him? Being a courser and all. One that’s _talking back?_ _”_  
  
Their reaction makes Kaelyn wonder. “Sade, you ever fought a courser?”  
  
“Of course not!”  
  
Kaelyn almost makes a quip about new bloods, then remembers nobody can learn of Expat’s new loyalties. Maybe that’s why they’re so nervous. “I’ve fought several. If X6 was going to attack, he wouldn’t be talking.”  
  
X6-88’s mouth twitches. “It may be a new tactic.” As much as he’s preying on battle-forged instincts that cry an alarm at the sight of his coat, she’s secure in the knowledge he’s content to try intimidating her. If not for the topic she might enjoy this verbal sparring. X6 never sassed her this much before.  
  
“You’ve made your opinion on surfacers clear. You couldn’t pretend you liked anyone long enough to get close.”  
  
“How strange you consider yourself a surfacer when you had the option to stand by Father’s side.”  
  
Kaelyn stares ahead. “The price was too high.”  
  
“You destroyed not only him, but his vision and his legacy. Worse, you did so for the Commonwealth. Whether you see it or not, it is dead. Carrion. A worm on a corpse.”  
  
“Poetic,” Kaelyn says dryly, “But wrong. X6, define ‘dead’.”  
  
“That which is not living.”  
  
“That’s right. As a courser, you know damn well what dead is. Look around you. This isn’t it. This is _injured_. We’ll find a way to survive. We always do. You inherited your stubbornness from humanity, you know.”  
  
X6-88 doesn’t deign to respond, so the rest of their walk is silent. At Sanctuary, Kaelyn gives Expat and X6-88 a brief rundown of the meagre facilities her home offers. Expat vanishes, their eagerness for a proper shower no doubt genuine, even if it isn’t their only motivation for leaving.  
  
If Kaelyn procrastinates by insisting on a detour to their house first, X6-88 doesn’t call her up on it. He waits outside, thankfully, while she and Nate trump in to Codsworth’s welcomes.  
  
They wipe travel grime off in the bathroom then take advantage of a clean change of clothes. In the privacy of their bedroom, Kaelyn figures now’s the time to have a quick word with Nate. Resting her hands on his shoulders, she leans into his chest. His arms encircle her waist, smooth as clockwork, requiring no more thought than breathing.  
  
She says, “You don’t have to visit if you don’t want to.”  
  
Nate’s mouth sets and she knows his answer before he speaks. “I never saw him become a man. This is all I’ve got. Besides, I’m not leaving you alone with a courser.”  
  
X6-88 waits by the path to the vault. Kaelyn leads the way—or rather, Dogmeat does, bounding ahead to startle a flock of ravens into taking wing, but his directions leave something to be desired. She winds through the woods up the hill to the lonely plateau. The dirt at Shaun’s grave is now a faint scar soon to be overtaken by lines of yellow grass.  
  
Kaelyn hangs back and tries not to think of his dead weight in her arms.  
  
X6-88 says nothing. He stands at the foot of the grave while Nate clears away the weeds that have taken root over Shaun’s resting place. X6-88 briefly lowers his head, then his coat swishes as he turns to leave.  
  
He pauses by her side, staring at the horizon. “He wouldn’t have wanted this.”  
  
Then he sets off down the hill, leaving her clutching the wound in her chest.  
  
For reasons known only to himself, X6-88 doesn’t leave immediately. Kaelyn only realises when the others seek her out later to ask what he’s doing here. Marcy’s mouth presses into a hard line when she mentions his presence is unnerving Jun, and Kaelyn doesn’t doubt she’d take on X6-88 herself if it meant Jun would smile again.  
  
Despite the churning in Kaelyn’s gut whenever she thinks of his deadpan delivery of his last words, the flash of the woods on his glasses as he turned to leave, she ventures out at sunset to find X6-88 by the bridge, watching the river.  
  
“Surprised you haven’t left already.”  
  
“I am about to.”  
  
She arches an eyebrow in his direction. “Wanted to say goodbye first?”  
  
Without a further word, X6-88 steps onto the bridge.  
  
“Before you leave, X6…”  
  
He stops for her, so that’s something. “Yes?”  
  
She notices the absence of _ma_ _’am_. Holding out a holotape, she waits for him to take it. He doesn’t. So she says, “Madison may have given you a message, but Virgil knows I’m not a friend of the Institute. So here’s my note to vouch for you as well.”  
  
Now he accepts the tape, disappearing it somewhere on his person so quickly she almost misses it. Without a further word, he turns to leave.  
  
“Be safe, X6.”  
  
At that, he pauses again. With his coat, he’s all hard lines and sharp angles, a living statue. “This unit’s safety is of no concern. I have my orders.” Something seethes under the words like serpents through black waters, silent and powerful and unseen.  
  
So Kaelyn pokes it. “Bullshit. There’s only X6-88 in the world.”  
  
The words don’t have the same kind of impact when he possesses a designation instead of a name. Maybe it’s the light, or maybe a muscle in X6-88’s jaw twitches once. “Synths are units made to serve.”  
  
“Tell me, X6. Does your gun have preferences? Does it ask you add this mod but not that one? Does it have opinions, whether it voices them or not? Synths aren’t tools. _You_ aren’t a tool. The Institute was wrong about you, and I couldn’t stand it. So yes, I chose synths over my own son.”  
  
He may as well be carved from stone. A distant breeze makes the trees shiver across the bank, then ripples over the water to toy with the hem of his coat. When he next speaks, his words are deliberate, precise, probing. “You made a grave error overthrowing the Institute for the sake of synths.”  
  
She arches an eyebrow at the man who stands before her. “Did I? You wanted to pay your respects to Shaun. And if the SRB still existed, you’d know better than to go back to Starlight after your little display.”  
  
“Why is that, ma’am?”  
  
“Because you’d be slated for reassignment.”  
  
His chin dips. Just the faintest movement. “In the absence of any other authority, Dr Li possesses the ability to strip me of my designation.”  
  
“But she can’t strip you of your mind. You know you’re more powerful than everyone in that settlement. They can’t make you submit to punishment.”  
  
“No,” he agrees, and for the first time something in his face shifts, his voice becoming more conversational. “They cannot. Ma’am.”  
  
With that, he sweeps past her to head south. Kaelyn watches until his silhouette vanishes over the hill.

—

The week flies by at the Castle during the final preparations to host the Commonwealth Accords. The name had been decided at the last minute, but when the ghost of the provisional government still hangs like a pall over the proceedings they need to rebrand. Several representatives have already arrived along with a flood of curious onlookers arriving to observe, including one Piper Wright.  
  
She somehow tracks down Kaelyn when the latter has hardly taken a step inside the gates. “What, you thought I’d just sit on my thumbs while something this important is happening. Not a chance, Blue! Radio Freedom is going to do a reading of the articles I write!”  
  
Of course, there are problems before they’ve even begun. Diamond City wants a last minute change of location to host the proceedings themselves. From the way Piper splutters and fumes, the council waited until after she’d left to make the announcement.  
  
Also, Kaelyn learns she’s been volunteered for a bigger role than she’d anticipated. All of the colonels are attached to the delegations from their settlements—with the noticeable exception of Kaelyn, since Sanctuary Hills isn’t big enough to warrant its own representative. So Preston and Ronnie want her to moderate the talks as a neutral party.  
  
“You what?” Kaelyn gapes at the two of them, certain she’s misheard.  
  
“Did he stutter?” Ronnie asks.  
  
“I was a lawyer, not a politician. That doesn’t make me qualified for this.”  
  
“Look, I’ve got a lot of pull as general,” Preston says, “but I’m not out to establish military control of the Commonwealth. You have ties to too many people to represent the interests of one group and we need a mediator to keep the discussion under control.”  
  
Upon learning of the Minutemen’s intentions, Desdemona had ordered her to attend in some capacity. _“We need someone on the inside who can advocate for synths. If you’re overruled, then we need to know who in this new system is going to be a danger to synths.”_  
  
She’d anticipated picking up gossip, not _leading_ the talks.  
  
Nate isn’t any help. If anything, he seems amused watching her pace the length of their quarters. “Hon, you’re the best negotiator we’ve got. On our first venture in this brave new world, I saw you negotiate a hostage situation. This shouldn’t be as tense as drawn guns. Right?”  
  
“That was an emergency.”  
  
“You mean you had no time to second guess yourself?” When she says nothing, he continues, “Could you sit on the sidelines knowing that such important talks are happening without you? Knowing that Representative Asshole of Bully Town is trying to screw over everyone else and block progress?”  
  
Kaelyn throws up her arms and concedes. “Fine.”  
  
Nate grins. “That’s the spirit.” On her next pass of the room, he reels her in for a kiss and she forgets about the future of the Commonwealth for a while.  
  
Then she realizes she doesn’t have an appropriate outfit. If she isn’t acting on behalf of the Minutemen, her colonel’s gear is out. Codsworth arrives with what’s left of her wardrobe, neatly pressed, but the only thing that might work is a slate-gray pencil skirt that somehow survived in the bottom of the cupboard, and a pair of black heels that are missing their soles.  
  
To Diamond City, then. She can hit two birds with one stone.  
  
It takes yet more time to cross Boston, again, but soon enough she and Nate are stepping into the marketplace, where the awnings throw pink shade onto the mud. Nate tugs her to Fallon’s first, despite the pressing need to speak to the city council.  
  
“It’s politics, right?” he says, even if his expression is too mischievous. “Show the council they aren’t such a pressing concern after all. You’re operating on your time, not theirs.”  
  
Even if she suspects an ulterior motive, it’s fun to take a moment for themselves. Becky appreciates the challenge of finding a blouse that goes with Kaelyn’s skirt, while Kaelyn appreciates the mundane challenge of trying on clothes. The moment she lays eyes on the yellow blouse, somehow crisp and unsullied by stains, she knows it’s the one. Becky bundles something extra with the blouse: stockings and garters. Those fit well enough, and Kaelyn relishes the feel of nylons against her skin, pointing her toes in her heels. A pity the blouse itself is too big, the collar hanging too low over her collarbones.  
  
For a husband slouching in a chair, waiting for his wife to buy clothes, Nate looks a little too engaged by the proceedings. He even browses the racks, though he fields a dirty look when he doesn’t buy anything himself.  
  
Becky refuses to let Kaelyn just buy the blouse; she takes Kaelyn’s measurements and insists on taking it in for a more flattering cut. Whether or not it’s a ploy for more caps, it’ll be nice to have a shirt that fits properly.  
  
With the fun part of the day out of the way, Kaelyn ventures to the Upper Stands, leaving Nate to wander the markets. The city council makes her wait an hour to be heard, despite Geneva’s attempts to get her audience fast-tracked.  
  
“Please pardon the wait,” Councilor Ellen says with a glued-on smile.  
  
“It’s no trouble.” There’s a time to be catty and a time to be gracious. “Now that I’m here, we’d best get to business. I understand you’ve offered to host the Commonwealth Accords here in Diamond City?”  
  
“Yes,” Thomas agrees. “Not only is the Great Green Jewel the heart of the Commonwealth, but our walls offer the greatest security in the land. We know this is the best place to hold talks regarding the future.”  
  
“While you’re most generous to offer your home for the talks, the Castle has already been designated the meeting area and a number of delegates have already arrived. Unfortunately, we cannot change the location on such short notice.”  
  
Oh, they aren’t pleased to hear this. One would figure that after being crippled by Mayor McDonough, the council would know better than to attempt his brand of control.  
  
“We regret to hear that,” Justina says. “In fact, I am uncertain whether our party could reach the Castle on such short notice.”  
  
Everyone in the room knows it’s a lie. Two lies, in fact, when they had ample warning and Kaelyn herself is about to make the return trip.  
  
Still, Kaelyn returns their empty smile and hollow concern. “It is a long distance for those unused to travel, yes, and yet many others have journeyed from all corners of the Commonwealth to make it to the Castle by the designated time. You still have a few days if you hurry, councilors, and I hope to see you at the talks. Thank you for your time.”  
  
In the markets, Nate sits at Power Noodles and, after taking one look at her face, offers his chopsticks and half-empty bowl. “How’d it go?”  
  
“Any misconceptions have been cleared up. The talks will be held at the Castle as agreed. I have a feeling the council’s stalling. If they’re late or don’t show up at all, I wouldn’t be surprised.”  
  
Nate turns to the bag on the stool beside him. “I took the liberty of picking up the goods from Fallon’s.” He rifles through the bag and holds out a package wrapped in an old newspaper. “I also got you this.”  
  
Kaelyn unfolds the bundle of fabric, the navy blue material falling in ample swoops as she holds it up. She gawks at it, taking precious seconds to process what it is. A swing skirt. Funny that something so mundane seems unfamiliar now.  
  
Nate beams at her. “Next time we go dancing, we can do it in style.”  
  
Throwing her arms around his neck, she pulls him down for a kiss.

—

Under the assault of a wet comb, Kaelyn’s hair smooths down. She turns this way and that in the mirror, seeking any flaw in her appearance. She smooths her hands down her skirt to even out non-existent wrinkles, noting how the blouse sleeves are a touch too tight around her shoulders. Some days it seems absurd how much muscle she’s put on by running around trying to stay alive. Even though Codsworth had recovered a stick of her favorite plum lipstick from inside the couch, protected for over two hundred years, her only eyeliner is a fine stick of charcoal.  
  
Her mind usually skips over two hundred and ten years that don’t exist. To her, it’s been less than a year since she dressed in freshly-ironed blouses and pretty skirts, but it may as well have been two centuries for how uncomfortable she feels in them now. Having grown used to the weight of leathers and rough armor, she now feels an itch between her shoulder blades. The fabric is barely a cool whisper over her skin.  
  
“Morning.” Nate lumbers into the bathroom, running a hand over his face, and she appreciates the play of muscles in his bare torso. Resting his hands on her shoulders, Nate nuzzles her hair—carefully, to not ruin it. “There you are. As good as you look in leather, I’ve gotta admit I missed this.”  
  
She covers his hands with her own. Their eyes meet in the mirror; affectionate green and anxious hazel. “That makes two of us.”  
  
Nate pulls her back against his chest and rests his head on her shoulder. “Ready?”  
  
“As I’ll ever be.”  
  
He gives her a gentle push to the door. “Knock ’em dead, honey.”  
  
Preston is the only person who’s arrived at the meeting hall before Kaelyn. Not only that, he carries two steaming mugs of coffee. She accepts hers with thanks and quaffs it down as the delegates starts to drift in. In the interest of security, all weapons are left in the armory, guarded by several Minutemen.  
  
Hancock’s entrance counts among the most dramatic, tricorn hat pressed to his chest, his red coat flaring behind him as he slides between gathered representatives with the grace of a shark among a school of fish.  
  
Kaelyn and Preston welcome the entrants and direct them to find their name cards at the table. Well, tables—several of them had to be requisitioned from the mess and pressed end-to-end to fit everyone. Even with only one representative per settlement allowed at the table, that’s still almost thirty people to seat. Vault 81’s representative is the easiest to spot in her blue suit. It takes several long moments for a name to emerge from the depths of Kaelyn’s memory: Tina De Luca.  
  
The main food producers—Warwick Homestead, Graygarden and Greentop Nursery—have all showed to everyone’s private relief. Even Kessler kept her word, despite her pinched expression. As the room fills, voices wash through the space like the tides outside, punctuated by the occasional seagull screech.  
  
Kaelyn leans over to Preston. “Have you seen DC’s reps?”  
  
He frowns. “Don’t know if they’re gonna show, but we can do this with or without them.”  
  
The seating arrangement had to be considered with care, particularly regarding Goodneighbor and the Slog. To that end, both are sandwiched between delegates known to be ghoul-friendly. Ronnie is to sit next to Hancock; with luck, their strong personalities will keep each other in check.  
  
A number of delegates double take when they discover the presence of ghouls at the table, but it only takes one to open his mouth. “What’re these radeaters doing here?”  
  
Wonderful. Someone is causing a scene this early in the proceedings.  
  
Kaelyn plays ignorant, keeping her face free of the anger that simmered in her gut. Not her preferred tactic when the maligned group are in hearing range, but best nip this attitude in the bud. With her sweetest smile, she says, “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Goodneighbor and the Slog are two settlements of affluence; on what grounds could they be excluded from the proceedings? After all, if Somerville Place was invited, how could we ignore larger settlements?”  
  
A number of delegates look away, chagrined. Hancock snorts while Wiseman folds his hands in his lap and watches the table.  
  
The protester grinds his teeth. Without old world bureaucracy, many of the people here aren’t seasoned politicians but farmers and fighters. “You can’t expect us to—?”  
  
She cuts him off, since his words aren’t worth hearing. “Of course nobody is going to be forced into anything they don’t want. If you vehemently disagree with this venture, may I suggest the door behind you? It isn’t locked, I promise.”  
  
“Just sit down, Bill,” someone calls from the table. “You’re going to throw this chance away over something so stupid?”  
  
Red-faced and mumbling, he finds his seat. Kaelyn makes a mental note to apologize to Hancock and Wiseman later.  
  
When everyone has migrated to their seats, Preston stands up. The room quietens. “Thanks for coming, everybody! With the Institute gone, we now have a chance to heal and rebuild. That’s why we’re all here, to move forward and make the Commonwealth a better place.”  
  
“The Institute went after the old provisional government, so our predecessors must have done something right,” Faiza mutters.  
  
At the mention of the ill-fated Commonwealth Provisional Government, a number of delegates suddenly appear nervous.  
  
“As long as the same doesn’t happen to us…”  
  
“How can it?” Wiseman says with a confidence he doesn’t feel, judging by his expression. “The Institute’s gone, right?”  
  
Time to intercede. “It is indeed,” Kaelyn says, “and the Minutemen graciously offered to host the talks so we can have the best security the Commonwealth has to offer. Everyone’s excited and nervous about this opportunity, so let’s start with the brahmin and not the cart. For any future government to be born, we have to have a shared foundation.”  
  
“Of the People, by the People, for the People,” Hancock rumbles.  
  
Whatever agreements the Commonwealth Provisional Government had made were lost or destroyed, with time nullifying any that remained, so they have to start from scratch. Preston had spent last night grilling Kaelyn and Nate for their knowledge of pre-war law, so he’s the first to throw down. “We need a charter that outlines the rights of the Commonwealth’s people and the formal boundaries of our land.”  
  
At this point in time, Kaelyn’s job is fairly easy. She doesn’t have to contribute any ideas herself, just ensure the discussion remains civilized. People are excited and nervous enough that they’re willing to co-operate.  
  
Anthony of Nordhagen Beach calls, “The simplest option is to use the Commonwealth’s historical boundaries! Which are, um— does anyone have a map?”  
  
Preston, bless him, attempts to keep his face straight as he lays out the map from his office. “Take a look, everybody. This is the pre-war boundary of the Commonwealth. If everyone agrees, that makes our lives easier.”  
  
They take a vote, and with unanimous agreement, the Accords’ first agreement is made.  
  
Ten minutes in, Diamond City’s representative, Councilor Thomas Meyers, makes his entrance with only a perfunctory apology for his tardiness. It takes another minute to regain order as people react to the latecomer—some welcoming, others wary, and a few express their active distaste.  
  
Just when Kaelyn has shot down all the complainers and gotten the discussion back on track, Thomas leans forward to inspect his fellows for the first time. He cuts off Colonel Bowen with, “Excuse me, but why are there so many Minutemen in here? You’re already trying to stack this meeting in their favor by inviting all of your leaders!”  
  
“The identities of the delegates were never a secret,” Kaelyn says. “You had ample opportunity to protest. Only General Garvey represents the Minutemen at this table; any others are representing the interests of their respective settlements.”  
  
“And I’m supposed to believe you won’t support each other on principle?”  
  
“That’s generally the nature of an alliance, Councilor Meyers,” she drawls, affecting boredom. “I do, however, have the utmost confidence that the colonels will put first the well-being of their settlements, whom they represent today. I personally have no vote and do not represent any interested party, if that’s your concern. I also request that you do not interrupt anybody else. As you were saying, Bowen?”  
  
Bowen clears his throat. “As I was _saying_ , let’s outline our rights as humans right now. Survival, food and water, shelter, and the ability to defend our land. Anything that jeopardizes that is in trouble.”  
  
Kaelyn says, “If I might make a suggestion, I would recommend the term ‘sentient’ over ‘human’, to fully recognize the status of sapients who live peaceably in the Commonwealth and beyond.”  
  
“I agree,” Preston calls.  
  
Hancock leans back in his seat. “Sounds good to me.”  
  
“I disagree,” Connie Abernathy calls, her voice carrying from the opposite end of the table. “Human suits well enough, and we all understand what we mean.”  
  
In her mildest voice, Kaelyn asks, “Are you suggesting people don’t understand the meaning of ‘sapient’?” She gives Connie five seconds, then continues, “Whatever agreements made here must be clear. Human means something different depending on who you ask. The Brotherhood of Steel, as I’m aware, has a rather narrow definition.”  
  
Opinions on the Brotherhood are mixed, but once word had spread that they occasionally ‘requisitioned’ crops from settlements, that had drawn the ire of many. Invoking them now has the desired effect: Connie pauses her rebuttal, unwilling to align herself with the Brotherhood’s politics.  
  
They take a vote, and Kaelyn counts the hands raised in favor. It’s a majority, so the harried minute-taker jots down the amendment.  
  
“If I may,” Thomas says. “There is one priority concern we’ve neglected to formalize. Diamond City is, of course, the capital of the Commonwealth.”  
  
“You don’t have to sound so cocky ’bout it,” Hancock retorts.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Kaelyn warns before Bill can get a word in. “Do we need a discussion, or shall we vote?”  
  
Since everyone’s opinions on Diamond City are already set in stone, they skip to a vote. The motion passes with a clear majority, though not by enough votes to satisfy Councilor Thomas. Surprisingly, Hancock and Kessler the only two to vote against it.  
  
“Excellent.” Thomas leans forward in his seat, and fixes Preston with a smile. “If we are to govern the entire Commonwealth, the Minutemen intend to obey the law of the land, yes?”  
  
_That_ is a trap. Kaelyn nudges Preston under the table so they won’t speak over each other. He defers to her without a sound; nobody sees their moment of coordination. She says, “Please clarify, Councilor Meyers. Do you mean to suggest the Minutemen are beholden to the powers that be, and take orders from a government instead of our general?”  
  
A ripple goes through the room, the battle lines being silently drawn. Kessler’s one of the few who remains composed, but from the fresh glint in her eye she might agree with Diamond City on something. None of the colonels are impressed.  
  
Thomas continues delicately, “When the Minutemen are the most powerful military force in the Commonwealth, I find myself… uncomfortable with your general’s unilateral power.”  
  
Kaelyn has to concede the point. “It’s a question worth asking. Who will the Minutemen serve? The people, or any future government?”  
  
“The people,” Preston answers at once. “It’s our job to protect the people of the Commonwealth at a minute’s notice.”  
  
“Which sounds nice and all,” Kessler says, “but the Minutemen have turned their backs on their job before. How do we know you won’t do it again, when you’re an army that obeys no one but yourselves?”  
  
Preston pauses to give the question full consideration. “We’ve been revising and formalizing our policies as we rebuild. Any settlement who contacts us for aid must be answered. If the answering Minutemen don’t have the ability to take care of the problem right away, they radio for backup. And anyone who ignores a call for help is punished. I also want it on the record that any settlement that opts out of the Accords won't be penalized. The Minutemen will still come when you call, no strings attached.”  
  
“General,” Thomas says, “you still haven't answered if you would defer to a higher authority for the good of the Commonwealth.”  
  
Preston clears his throat. “That’s not a decision I can make lightly. But you’ll have an answer in a week.”  
  
Kaelyn only prays no one knows his body language as well as she does, because his shoulders are straight under his blue coat and his mouth set in a firm line. The answer is no. Still, better for them to present a united front on the issue.  
  
Thomas is forced to give up the issue when Kaelyn moves on to the next item on the agenda: land rights.  
  
“The rest of you’ll be too young to remember this, but my mama told me about the land rights in the old charter,” Abraham Finch says. “Didn’t just recognize the pre-war borders of the Commonwealth, but also said this land belongs to us, and no one can just barge in to take over—”  
  
A young Minuteman bursts into the room, panting, his laser musket primed a furious red. “General!”  
  
Preston’s already on his feet, with Kaelyn and Ronnie tying for second place. The atmosphere of the room condenses from the chill of sudden fear. Several reach for weapons, only to remember they’d disarmed.  
  
Preston crosses the room to touch the runner’s shoulder. “What is it?”  
  
“The Brotherhood—” he gasps. “They’ve showed up in force outside the walls!”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for all her help with this chapter! Apologies for last week’s mishap; I’m already addled by uni.

By the time Preston and Kaelyn reach the courtyard, they’ve picked up an entourage. Ronnie and Hancock follow them out of the now doubly-guarded meeting room, Nate had been loitering in the corridor with Dogmeat, while Piper had been waiting in ambush for any representatives to leave the meeting. At the first alarm, Danse and Cait materialize as if summoned, the former on the defensive and the latter on the offensive. They all attach themselves to the group without comment.

The courtyard is full, the battlements lined with what seems to be the entire garrison—a force of almost seventy, and from this distance their laser muskets stick every which way like the glowing red quills of a porcupine’s hide. Someone has even brought out the power armor, painted blue with the Minutemen’s logo stenciled on the breastplate. Every artillery station is manned and loaded. Standing on the battlements, Kaelyn peers down to the ground below.

A force of twenty Brotherhood soldiers, many in power armor, are amassed by the gates. Several carry heavy weapons.

Danse sucks in a breath. “That can’t be all that remains of the Brotherhood’s forces?”

“Reckon they heard about the Accords?” Piper asks.

“No—” Danse says, then catches himself as all eyes turn to him. “I mean, that sounds plausible. But to what end, I don’t know.”

Nate watches the whole thing unfold with a raised eyebrow. “I haven’t seen that many suits of power armor since Anchorage, but the paint job is new.”

“The Brotherhood hoard all the pre-war tech they can get their hands on, particularly military equipment,” Kaelyn explains. “I wonder if they’re here for the artillery?” It’s probably an optimistic guess.

Surprisingly, Danse doesn’t retort. His gaze is glued to the amassed force, his face rapidly losing color.

“State your business or get off our turf!” Ronnie shouts.

Nate chokes back a snort.

“Where is the general?” The leader calls. Their voice is low and tinny through the power armor’s speakers.

“Right here!” Preston calls back. “General Garvey!”

The ensuing silence stretches for several moments, marked by the steady tides behind the Castle. Then: “Requesting permission to enter the Castle! It’s a matter of urgency!”

“That sounded like pulling teeth,” Piper remarks.

Hancock scowls. “Open that gate and there’s no telling what they’ll do.”

Kaelyn shakes her head. “If the Brotherhood wanted to attack, they’d use their vertibirds to bypass our defenses. Infiltration isn’t their MO.”

“No, but we have a lot of civvies inside we need to protect,” Nate says.

“I’m not saying let them in. I’m saying they aren’t trying to attack… yet. Danse, your thoughts?”

He unclenches his jaw long enough to say, “The Brotherhood wouldn’t give a warning if their plan is to assault the Castle. But if they want to negotiate, it would be wise to listen.” He swallows, then adds, “Whatever their demands.”

“Sure,” Ronnie says, her voice deceptively mild. “We can listen, then we can give them the boot.”

“You can’t think your forces stationed here can be enough to repel the Brotherhood!” he snaps back. “They’re already too close for artillery.”

“Everyone cool it,” Preston says. His gaze flicks between them. “Kaelyn, Danse. You’re our top negotiator and a Brotherhood expert, respectively, so I want you both with me.”

Oh, _hell._

But where Kaelyn can clamp down on her dread, Danse goes even paler. His mouth opens then closes. It takes a second try to choke out, “I can’t. I am… not on good terms with the Brotherhood.”

Ah. This no doubt has something to do with the reason why Kaelyn found Danse in an abandoned bunker.

Kaelyn smooths the front of her shirt, presses her mouth into a hard line. Takes the attention off Danse by saying, “If that’s where you need me, General.”

She can only pray the Brotherhood only know her by name. Pray that they’re here for the Accords, Danse, anything except her.

Nate’s eying her with concern. “I’m coming with.”

Having taken this all on board, Preston thinks for a few moments, then calls down, “We’ll meet you outside the gates!” To Danse, he says, “Guard the meeting hall. You’re not going down there.”

“Yes, sir.” Before Preston turns away, he adds, “Demand to speak only with the ranking officer.”

Preston nods. “Will do.”

As he leads the way down the stairs, he orders a dozen marksmen to take positions on the battlements. It’s mostly for show, and they all know it; nobody will risk hitting the Minutemen’s leadership. The people stationed at the gates voice their objections until Nate barks a quick reprimand. Those weeks of training pay off when they fall silent.

A half-dozen Minutemen fall in with Preston’s group as they step just outside the gates, protected by the Castle’s shadow. At a glance, the Brotherhood force far outstrips them in equipment, and any fight will be bloody.

“All right, now we can talk without yelling ourselves hoarse,” Preston steps forward, with a shadow named Ronnie behind his shoulder. “What’s this urgent matter?”

“Knight Aldwin, Brotherhood of Steel. We understand your predecessor is present at your… fortress.”

To Preston’s credit, he doesn’t even twitch in Kaelyn’s direction. “Well, you have me. What’s this about?”

“The general— former general. Where is she?”

“Intel isn’t your strong point, is it?” Piper drawls.

“Now’s not the time to antagonize them,” Kaelyn hisses.

“You.” Several helmets turn in her direction. With no distinguishing features, it’s hard to tell which one of them is speaking. “You’re the former general. Our sources suggest you were involved in the Institute’s destruction. You need to come with us for questioning, citizen.”

Dammit. Someone must have passed her description on.

Lacing her fingers over her stomach, Kaelyn is all too aware that with her current attire, she’ll be toast if they open fire. “Perhaps you aren’t aware, Knight, but you’ve interrupted a diplomatic gathering that’s been in planning for weeks. I am already engaged, and you have no authority to demand I abandon my responsibilities here.”

“This will be much easier if you cooperate, civilian. Our investigation is of the utmost importance.”

“Why now? The Institute was destroyed months ago.”

With his helmet on, the speakers strip Aldwin’s voice of any human emotion. “The Brotherhood has been unable to spare resources to investigate in detail until now.”

Ah. So this is how long it took them to recollect themselves after losing the Prydwen. “I see. That still doesn’t change the fact I am required elsewhere and you are wasting the Accords’ time. I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

“You will, or you will face the consequences. We will not be so generous a second time.”

Piper scoffs. “Generous. _Right.”_

“Hold it,” Preston says. “You don’t threaten any of my people in front of me. And you aren’t taking her anywhere. If you want to talk, we talk here and now.”

Aldwin’s helmet turns in Preston’s direction. “I advise you stay out of this, civilian.”

Preston straightens his shoulders under his navy blue coat. “That’s _General_ Garvey. I suggest you respect that. Again, we’re all here now so if there are any questions you want to ask, you can go on ahead.”

“Our forces still outstrip yours in firepower. I won’t ask again.”

The unit behind him have their weapons drawn and aimed at the ground. If Kaelyn refuses outright, they might use it as an excuse to attack the Minutemen. They have to negotiate.

“Who’s your ranking officer?” Kaelyn asks. “Or are you it?”

Aldwin bristles, even if he can’t trace the insult lingering in the air between them. “I’m the commander of this mission, civilian.”

“Who’s the commanding officer of the Brotherhood’s remaining forces?”

“That’s none of your concern, and drawing this out will only—”

“I’ll talk,” Kaelyn says, earning several concerned looks from her side, “but only to your ranking officer.”

“On Castle grounds,” Preston adds, “or I’ll forbid my colonel from meeting with your ranking officer. You don’t get to stride in and make demands. But if you’re willing to compromise, we can work this out.”

Aldwin doesn’t respond. There’s no response but for the groan of servos in the dozen suits of armor.

“Sir,” an initiate says, “we can’t—?”

“Enough,” Aldwin barks. At last, he says, “The paladin’s going to hear about this. We’ll be back.”

“If you want to talk later, don’t bring power armor or weapons,” Nate tacks on. “Otherwise don’t even bother coming back.”

Knight Aldwin doesn’t dignify that with a response as they retreat.

When Preston’s party returns safe and sound the atmosphere in the meeting hall relaxes, if only a little. People are still bustling through the courtyard, erecting guard posts and barriers to cover the gates, rushing in and out of the armory with an assortment of heavy weapons. A pall hangs over them like a wet flag on a breeze-less day, damp and dreary.

Kaelyn is filled with not-fear, like a still pool on a winters day so cold she’s numb to it, drifting through snow banks with a dream-like haziness. It’s not the same thing as an absence of fear.

“What did the Brotherhood want?” Faiza asks.

“They wanted to discuss the Institute’s destruction, but we told them to wait until today’s proceedings have concluded.”

Connie Abernathy isn’t so easily convinced. “How do we know they aren’t planning an attack? How secure is this place, anyway?”

“The Castle can handle any attack,” Preston says. “We have a lot of people and doubled patrols. You’re all safe here. Not to mention the Brotherhood suffered the loss of their headquarters, and most of their vertibirds with it. They can’t recover easily from that. That said, we need you to stay here and stay calm.”

Hancock is the only one to blatantly disregard Preston’s first request, sauntering outside to help with the defenses. The remaining representatives disregard Preston’s second request, muttering to their neighbors with wide eyes and clenched hands. Someone has pulled their weapons out of storage, so a number of guns are already drawn.

The guards outside are doubled in number, but Danse is easy to spot among them. And not just because Nate is already talking to him. He stands at least half a head taller than almost everyone else, making the rigid tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief.

Nate notices Kaelyn’s approach first, his gaze sliding past Danse’s shoulder. He wordlessly holds out an arm and she leans against his side.

Danse clears his throat at the display. “While I can’t betray my oaths, I wish I had more information to give you.”

Kaelyn arches an eyebrow, glancing between the two men.

Nate says, “Even if intel’s always underfunded, we need an idea of what’s going to happen next. If and when the Brotherhood’s coming back.”

“The Brotherhood doesn’t make idle threats,” Danse replies. “Count on a return. When and under what circumstances, I can’t tell you.”

Nate’s hand tightens on her shoulder. “What are the chances they’re taking this time to prepare for an attack, since they got a close look at our defenses?”

“It’s possible, depending on their mission. If—” Danse breaks off, then steels himself. “If the Brotherhood wants me, I’ll give myself up. Nobody will die for me today.”

Not for the first time, she wonders what happened that an obviously devoted soldier ended up on the run. But Kaelyn shakes her head. “They didn’t mention you at all. I don’t think they know you’re here.”

“Then what do they want?”

“My wife,” Nate says. “So you can understand if we’d like some information on the Brotherhood’s methods. How they think.”

Danse swings in her direction. _“You?_ Why would the Brotherhood take interest in you?”

“Because I helped bring down the Institute,” she says. Wiping her hands on her skirt would betray the fact her palms are dewy with sweat, so she folds them across her stomach instead. “But I don’t understand why it matters now. They should have bigger concerns.”

He frowns. “The Institute was our priority. They could want confirmation the enemy has been eliminated.”

“If that’s all they wanted,” Nate asks, slowly, “why the dog and pony show? Those guys outside the walls weren’t messengers. They’re a threat to comply or else.”

This time Danse’s mouth pulls down in chagrin. “Wastelanders are not known for their cooperation, but the contingent was too large for mere show. They have another purpose here.”

“You don’t think they’re trying to compensate for their recent losses?” Nate asks. “I hear it was pretty bad. So they want to prove they still need to be taken seriously?”

The lines scored around Danse’s eyes deepen. “Casualties were high when the Prydwen was lost. I can’t give you an assessment when I don’t even know who the ranking officer is now.”

“All they said is they answer to a paladin,” Kaelyn says. “Any ideas who that might be?”

“There were many paladins in our contingent.” His eyes darken. “But that means the Prydwen’s command staff were all lost—”

“Kaelyn!” That’s Preston, calling across the courtyard. “They’re back!”

Her stomach freezes solid. “Already?”

Nate’s fingers dig into her shoulder. His gaze swings back to Danse, at once stern and beseeching. “That can’t be enough time to prep an assault force?”

“Unless reinforcements were already underway, no.”

Nate grunts. “Guess we’ll find out who the ranking paladin is.”

Preston reaches them then, resting a hand on Kaelyn’s shoulder. “You ready?”

“Have to be.”

Up on the walls, they discover a slightly smaller force arrayed outside the gates, headed by a different man—one who isn’t wearing power armor. “Paladin Brandis, Brotherhood of Steel! Don’t make me come up there!”

Preston calls back, “We each get groups of five at the table! No weapons!”

A few moments, then Brandis’s voice is whisked up to them by the wind. “Agreed!”

“We need to invest in an intercom,” Nate mutters, “so we don’t need to leave the walls to talk properly.”

Hancock watches the whole thing; he’s gone very still. “Want an escort, sunshine? Got an itch between my shoulder blades only a knife will fix.”

“Presumably by stabbing a back not your own,” she says with more calm then she feels. “I appreciate the offer, Hancock, but I don’t want to put you in harm’s way, and your presence wouldn’t be read as anything other than an insult.”

“Offer’s open. Don’t let those tin cans shove you around.”

With the settlement reps holed up in the Castle, Kaelyn’s group is again forced to leave the safety of the walls. Of the Minutemen’s permitted five, Preston and Nate are a given. Ronnie also volunteers, citing the need to put the Brotherhood’s whelps in their place, and Piper refuses to be left behind.

“I appreciate you all coming with me, but I need you to let me handle this. No interruptions, okay?” Her gaze rests the longest on Nate and Piper until she coaxes an agreement from them both.

A runner finds them at the gates. “They’re already outside waiting, General. We set up a table like you ordered.”

This time there’s the paladin at the head of the group. Behind him trail three knights and a scribe. Five Minutemen stand guard around the picnic table someone rescued from the nearby waterfront. One of their guards is Harry, the synth she’d met a long time ago; his face is tight, pale, but he attempts a smile for her. Kaelyn’s first thought is to manufacture an excuse to get him out of there, but that would only attract undue attention.

As if sensing her concern, he mouths, _no fear._

The Brotherhood’s spokesman is different this time: a grizzled gray-maned man with a rangy, leonine grace. The paladin. “We’ve met before, if I recall. Paladin Brandis.”

The name rings a bell, calling a dusty memory out of its storage. She’d found the holotags of his squad, returned them, and left his bunker ASAP. He must have returned to the Brotherhood at some point. “I remember. Good to see you again, Paladin.”

Empty words or no, it draws a hawkish smile from him. “From what I heard, you agreed to only five people in your party.”

Preston dismisses the Minutemen guards and they retreat with reluctance. Even Harry, whose worried brown eyes rest on Kaelyn. She mouths back, _no fear_.

Kaelyn sits at the Minutemen half of the table, crossing her ankles, and Nate claims the spot on her left. Preston takes her right, while Piper and Ronnie claim the flanking seats.

This almost feels like a cross examination, except she’s the one caught under the court’s scrutiny. “What can I help you with, Paladin?”

He looks her over, and his isn’t the only skeptical gaze. “They say you were involved in the Institute’s downfall?”

At least he has slightly more tact than Aldwin. “I was there at the time, yes.” It isn’t something she can deny, and if she’s even partially cooperative now then all the better to ward off the demands she can’t satisfy later.

It doesn’t take long to reach that point. Brandis’s next question: “The Railroad claimed responsibility for the assault on the Institute.”

“That’s the rumor,” is her silky reply. “But I daresay any long-standing enemy of the Institute would like to do so, whether or not it matches the facts. Perhaps the Brotherhood may be above, how do I put it, manipulating the truth to serve their interests, but do you trust the rabble to have the same standards?”

She sends a mental apology to Desdemona, even if this is just another part of playing agent.

The combination of flattery and derision towards wastelanders seems to win him over. “Wouldn’t be the first time an organization has lied to make themselves look better,” he says with a grim smile. “What was your interest in the Institute?”

“They kidnapped my son. I had to find him…” She looks down, swallows. Under the table, Nate’s hand grips hers. “Failing that, the Institute had to be stopped. So no parent would ever have to suffer like this again.” It feels almost manipulative this time, even if it’s the same story she’s repeated so many times the words are carved behind her breastbone, deep and aching and permanent.

Knight Aldwin snorts. “Are we supposed to believe one grief-stricken mother could do what we couldn’t?”

She lets herself flare up at the insult. “I really don’t care what you believe. There are any number of people who could verify I spent months searching for a way inside the Institute to find my son. The files you stole from Valentine Detective Agency also confirm my intent.”

Brandis cuts off a noise of offense from the knight. “And how did you discover the Institute’s location?”

Time to tread carefully. The last thing she wants is to point the Brotherhood’s wrath—or, perhaps worse, their curiosity—in Virgil’s direction. “I learned of someone who abandoned the Institute from the agent assigned to assassinate them.”

“Who is this expatriate? Where are they?”

“It hardly matters anymore, seeing as any information they have on the Institute is useless.”

“But their scientific knowledge—” the scribe begins.

Kaelyn cuts in, a beat too fast, “Don’t assume they were a scientist.” She takes a moment to breathe. _Don’t give anything away_. “That said, I doubt they’re still alive. The Glowing Sea is beyond dangerous.”

That wards off any further questions on Virgil as disappointment sets in. Even if the Brotherhood had been at full strength, they’d think twice about pursuing someone through that hellhole.

Under the table, Nate rests a hand on her knee and gives a gentle squeeze. She doesn’t glance his way, but the touch bolsters her nerves so she can face the next questions.

Brandis leans forward in his seat, watching her without blinking. “What do you know of the Railroad?”

“What anyone else does. An underground movement dedicated to freeing synths.”

“If you wanted the Institute, did you not ally with the Railroad?”

“Simply because a movement opposed the Institute didn’t make them my allies. I never approached the Brotherhood, after all.”

Brandis’s mouth quirks in acknowledgment. “How did you reach the Institute without any resources or backup? We’ve heard nothing of any Minutemen involvement.”

“I’m a woman of many talents, Paladin.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

Kaelyn dimples prettily when she smiles. “Then stop making assumptions about me and my resources.”

Brandis clears his throat. “How did you manage to destroy the Institute? That explosion at the CIT ruins was caused by the Institute, correct?”

“Correct. I overloaded their reactor. So no more kidnappings, no more experiments, no more synths.”

At the reminder that the synth ‘threat’ is gone, the Brotherhood delegate is less appreciative than she might have expected. Only Brandis keeps his expression even. This man must play a mean hand of poker.

She almost thinks she’s survived unscathed until he opens his mouth. “One final question: the timing between the assault on the Brotherhood and the Institute was beyond coincidental. You will tell us everything you know about that.”

Kaelyn leans back in her seat, affects nonchalance. “If you think I’m capable of fighting two opponents and winning, I’m flattered. My goal was always the Institute.”

“Then what happened to the Prydwen?” Aldwin demands, rising to his feet. “You have _no idea_ what we lost—”

“Knight!” Brandis barks, and he subsides.

On the contrary, Kaelyn has a very good idea. They lost their airship, their base of operations in the Commonwealth, Elder Maxson and all of their highest officers, not to mention all the lives—

Desdemona and Carrington had planned it that way. Their retaliation had to succeed where the assault on Old North failed.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Kaelyn says, “You can keep phrasing the same question in different ways, and I’ll keep rephrasing the same answer.”

Brandis eyes her, his gaze weighted with lead and impossible to look away from. “Then let’s try one more time: do you have any knowledge, be it rumor or fact, on the culprits who attacked the Brotherhood?”

She lifts her chin. “None.”

Beside her, Piper shifts in her seat. “Wasn’t it the Institute that—?”

Realizing too late what she’s doing, Kaelyn hisses, “Piper!”

“What’s this?” Brandis asks.

Piper says, “I don’t know about any of you, but the rumor I heard was the Institute sent a couple of agents aboard the Prydwen.”

“Impossible!” Aldwin scoffs.

Brandis’s face doesn’t even twitch. “That’d be the first I heard of it. Strange timing, when the Institute itself was destroyed mere days later.”

Kaelyn says, “I have no more information to give you, Paladin.”

In the distance, seagulls screech, their screams carries on the coastal gale that tears across the table, threatening to tip them all into the ocean. Brandis doesn’t even twist. He just pins her under a gaze as gray and heavy as the overcast skies above.

“Bullshit—”

Brandis raises a hand to silence Aldwin. “A shame. But there’s nothing more to be gained here.”

Preston plants his hands on the table, capturing everyone’s attention. “Before you leave, I’ve got some questions of my own,” he says. “What is the Brotherhood planning for the Commonwealth now the Institute’s gone? You always claimed they were your only purpose here.”

Brandis hesitates. Several of them scowl.

“Fair’s fair,” Preston says. “I thought this was a negotiation. That only works if you’re willing to give as well as take.”

Arguments of fairness have never been known to work on the Brotherhood, so Ronnie barks, “You’ll answer the general or I’ll take it out of your hides.”

Brandis’s whiskery eyebrows almost reach his hairline as he takes in Ronnie, who’s leaning forward in her seat with her hands pressed to the tabletop, as if contemplating whether to vault over the table to force them to talk right now. His mouth quirks. “The remainder of our forces will return to the Citadel. Pardon me if I don’t have fond memories of your Commonwealth.”

“Sir—”

Brandis waves a hand to silence his subordinate.

Preston continues with, “Where are the remainder of the Brotherhood housed? We’ve only heard scattered reports of lost patrols.”

Brandis’s eyes turn opaque like a fogged shower glass. “It won’t matter when we’re on the verge of moving out.”

He’s much smoother than Kaelyn has given him credit for, and this time not even a glare from Ronnie can persuade him to divulge that piece of sensitive intel.

At an impasse, both sides stare at each other across the table, keenly aware of every inch that divides them.

Kaelyn reaches out a way to cut this short disguised as an olive branch. “If that’s everything, Paladin, then our business here is concluded?”

“It must be,” he replies. “There’s nothing else to be gained here, for either of us.”

Despite every instinct compelling her to flee, Kaelyn remains in step with Preston. For several awkward moments, no one trusts the other side enough to show their backs. Preston is the first to turn around, so both Kaelyn and Ronnie watch the Brotherhood delegate like twin hawks. Ronnie even hangs back, eying Brandis.

Kaelyn stumbles over a rock, her knees suddenly weak, and Nate’s there to rest a hand at the small of her back. She leans into his side, bolstered by his presence.

Halfway up the hill, Nate asks, “Where’s Ronnie?”

Kaelyn glances around his arm to discover Ronnie and Brandis still at the picnic table. Even from this distance, Brandis’ sly cock of an eyebrow is clear.

Piper narrows her eyes at the sight. “Are those two… flirting?”

“If Ronnie’s more memorable than me, so much the better.” Beyond that, Kaelyn doesn’t need or want to know.

Duty eventually parts them, but only after both sides have hollered for their respective colonel and paladin to _come on_. With Ronnie in tow, the Minutemen retreat up the hill to the security of the Castle’s walls, and find the courtyard filled with people listening in. Even Cait sits on a nearby barrel, shotgun in her lap, looking rather disappointed things didn’t progress to violence. Curie bobs by the door to the infirmary, and waves in an eerily human gesture before being ushered back inside to tend someone with a splinter in his thumb.

Only after the gates swing into place with a heavy rattle, the board sliding home, does Kaelyn wobble on her feet. She survived. They all survived, and the Railroad is still safe. The Railroad has to be safe.

If only it could be a victory to celebrate, but she just feels sick. Maybe it would have been better if the Brotherhood didn’t buy her lies and tried to drag her off. It would have been bloodier, sure, but there’s a certain purity in knowing that it’s must kill or be killed. Morality becomes redundant in the face of survival.

But without that justification, she can question and regret.

Nate bumps her shoulder with his. “You know what you need? A high five with Dogmeat.” He crouches down and Dogmeat touches his hand with his paw. “Your turn, hon.”

Dogmeat dutifully smacks her outstretched hand with his paw, and it does help.

Despite Preston calling the all-clear, the Minutemen keep their doubled patrols and linger in the courtyard. No one quite believes it’s over, least of all Kaelyn. Relief is a painful bubble in her chest, frozen in the half-second a needle punctures a balloon before the air ruptures its way out.

It can’t be that easy to escape mass murder. Act of war or no.

She ends up on the walls again, looking out to sea. The ocean is vast, indomitable, its edges white and choppy from the same wind that draws goosebumps along her skin. The water doesn’t care for anything that falls into its grasp, but it’ll swallow flaming debris and bodies all the same.

Kaelyn bows her head as stinging strands of hair attack her eyes. It hurts, but closing her eyes would hurt more, with what’s lurking behind them. The stones are uneven under her feet, threatening to catch one of her heels and twist her ankle when she shifts her weight. All that effort to get the shoes cleaned, ruined in one afternoon thanks to her excursion outside the Castle. Another gale tears along her scalp, drawing a fresh shudder from her. Her flimsy pre-war attire is ill-suited to the Wasteland, but discomfort is the least she deserves.

Light footsteps signal someone’s approach, so Kaelyn takes a few seconds to rebuild her composure.

“Preston said this is your favorite haunt.”

Kaelyn glances sideways. “Hey, Piper.”

“Hey, yourself, Blue. You looked lonely up here.” Piper leans beside her on the wall, offering warmth and a windbreak.

“After today, I could stand for some alone time.”

Piper lets out a gusty breath. “It sure started things with a bang. At least the Brotherhood wasn’t here to stop the Accords. And you chased them off, anyway.”

Half of her expects them to come back while the other half feels they _should_ come back. She just denied them their justice, after all. “You helped, Piper. That was some quick thinking back there.”

Piper shifts on her elbows. “Yeah, well, it was my paper that clued the Brotherhood in to you in the first place. Might as well use the Institute’s reputation as a bogeyman, right?”

Kaelyn smiles grimly. “I thought you were invested in the truth, not lies.”

“Extenuating circumstances, Blue. The Brotherhood’s not dragging you off in chains.”

The guilt grows heavier, calcifying at reassurance so confident it feels unwelcome. “They wouldn’t have been wrong to. The Prydwen’s gone because of—”

A click behind them. “ _You_.”

In this moment, the burst of dread is so agonizing it tastes of relief. Kaelyn freezes, her hands digging into stone that’s as cold and nerveless as her fingers.

“Turn around!”

She does so, to face Danse. Danse, who has his laser rifle drawn on her. Safety off.

Piper yells, “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Don’t make this worse, Piper!” A gale tears the words from Kaelyn’s throat to fling them onto the rocks far below. She’s hard pressed to hear anything, but Danse’s murderous expression more than make makes up for that.

“He’s drawn a gun! I’m not the one making this—”

“Quiet,” Danse snaps. But he only has eyes for Kaelyn—and, oh, the fury snapping in them is enough to freeze her blood in her veins. “It was you the entire time! _You’re_ responsible for the Prydwen!”

Kaelyn takes a step away from Piper, hands raised. The fear, the anxiety, it all drains away like water into the soil, leaving her with an eerie calm. This is it. This is the moment. Everyone pays eventually, and she’s been on borrowed time since the night the sky burned. “Just don’t hurt anyone else. It was me, and only me.”

“Blue!” Piper lurches towards her, but Kaelyn shakes her off.

Danse’s lip curls at the sight. “I’m supposed to believe you acted alone?”

“It was a suicide mission. Why waste more people than necessary?”

“How dare you—!” Danse’s hands tighten convulsively on the weapon.

Before she can respond, feet slap on the stone stairs and—

Oh _no_.

“What the hell?” Nate has his 10mm pointed at Danse in a heartbeat. It’s nothing more than a sidearm, but it’ll kill all the same. “Drop it!”

“Do you know what she did?” Danse demands. “Do you?”

Nate doesn’t waver. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t warrant being shot. So put the rifle _down_.”

Now fear snakes through Kaelyn. With the crushing power of a python, it locks its slithering form around her chest to silently devour her. “Nate, please.”

“Please _what?_ ” he snaps. “Watch you get shot?”

Knowing that pain—her heart breaks for what he’s going to see. If only he hadn’t noticed the ruckus. If only she hadn’t opened his pod to release him into this suffering world.

“She’s a coward and a murderer!” Underneath Danse’s fury lurks wild grief, for every comrade lost. “She destroyed the Prydwen with everyone aboard and evaded justice!”

Now Nate’s eyes snap to her, wide and fearful. “Wait, for real?”

Somehow his blank shock is worse. Kaelyn almost wishes Danse stop this knife-twisting and get it over with.

But no, he spits, “Tell me why you did it!”

Normally the assault on Old North Church conjures up righteous fury, hot and indignant and darkly satisfying, but now she just feels a tired pang for Glory and the others lost that night. “Because the Brotherhood struck first, and they weren’t going to stop until we were all dead.”

Danse sucks in a breath. “You were with the Institute, weren’t you?”

In different circumstances, that logic jump might be amusing. If only because he’s right about that too. “No.”

“The Brotherhood doesn’t have so many enemies that— oh.” He adjusts his grip, eyes narrowing. “ _Railroad_.”

Pinned under two pairs of incredulous eyes, each question is a scalpel slicing through Kaelyn’s skin, exposing her innermost secrets for scrutiny. She says nothing, because she can’t, and it’s as good as a yes.

“All this time.” Danse shakes his head, almost wondrous. “You’ve been the enemy the entire time!”

Kaelyn has no answer. She can’t look at Danse or Nate.

So Piper steps up. “Will everyone take a deep breath and calm down? Blue, stop trying to sacrifice yourself. Nate, save those questions for later. Danse, you think shooting someone in broad daylight is justice?”

“It’s more than my brothers and sisters got, and it’s better than _she_ deserves. Now get out of my way, civilian.”

“Piper—” Kaelyn tries, but Piper shakes her off to stand between her and Danse’s rifle.

“No, Blue!” She turns to Danse. “The truth is important, and you’ve got it. But how is more murder going to fix anything?”

“It’s not murder if it’s deserved,” Danse snarls.

“Yeah?” Piper points a thumb over her shoulder at Kaelyn. “That’s what she said, too.”

That pulls him up short, just long enough for more footsteps to clatter up the stairs. Preston and two patrolmen, summoned by the commotion.

“What the hell is going on here? Guns down, now!”

Preston’s entry mirrors Nate’s, only the weight of his command compels Danse to obey, albeit reluctantly. But that doesn’t ease the murder in his eyes. Nate waits a few seconds to make sure Danse isn’t bluffing, then follows suit.

“Good.” Except Preston’s jaw is clenched as he takes in the marginally improved scene. “Now anyone care to tell my why there’s an armed standoff in my Castle?”

“I can’t stay here.” Without a further word, Danse turns on his heel and storms down the stairs.

Catching Preston’s eye, she shakes her head. “Let him go.”

“You sure? All I saw was him holding a gun on you.”

She says _yes_ the same time Nate says _no_ , and their eyes meet across the distance. Exasperation snaps in his burning green gaze, and when he closes the gap between them her first impulse is to shrink away.

Piper wraps an arm around her waist. “You okay, Blue?”

Kaelyn nods, leaning into her side. “Yeah. Just let him go. It’s over with.”

Preston doesn’t look assuaged, but concedes to her wishes. Nate hovers by her side, twisting to put himself between her and Danse. They watch in silence as Danse disappears into the bunkhouse, then the shed, and trudges out in his power armor. Everything he owns. The gates creak outward, then inward, and he’s gone.

“Show’s over!” Nate barks. Even Kaelyn jumps, nerves shot and ears ringing. “Back to your posts!” Then he grabs Kaelyn by the arm and ushers her to the stairs. “We need to talk. In private.”

Kaelyn doesn’t dare look at Nate while they walk. She can’t, not even when she stands on the threadbare rug in their quarters and he shuts the door behind him. The finality of the snick feels like an executioner’s ax.

Nate has no patience for it. “If I hadn’t come along, you’d have let him shoot you.”

It’s not a question.

Kaelyn can’t meet his eye, can’t say anything other than, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be protective of yourself. He might have killed you!”

All the anxiety filling her chest squeezes the air out of her lungs in a long exhale. “Might have.”

“You sound way too comfortable with the idea.” Nate grips her shoulder and spins her to face him. “What did you do?” When she won’t say anything, won’t even look at him, he breathes, “Danse was right, wasn’t he? You’re the one who blew up the Prydwen?”

Ah, there are the last threads of denial. Kaelyn’s never understood how he can cloak himself in disbelief until a knife sharper than the original shock cuts through it.

She hates being that knife.

A sharp exhale behind her. “Seriously?”

There’s nothing she can say.

“You— the Brotherhood— just… tell me why you never thought to mention this.”

Stricken, her pain and guilt are like the sucking mud at the bottom of a stagnant pool, trapping her under the immovable weight of water. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t…”

“You think I haven’t done things I’m not proud of?” His voice is flat and cutting, like a sheet of ice. “I served in a war, Kaelyn.”

“Not like this. You didn’t see the explosion…”

Nate watches her, his eyes—well, they’re unlike anything she’s ever seen, not those of a husband or a soldier or a wastelander, but something in between. “Start with why.”

She hears the layers in his demand. Why Danse held her at gunpoint. Why she didn’t resist. Why she murdered most of the Brotherhood in one fell swoop.

The words hang on her tongue like dew clinging to a dead branch, only falling when its weight grows too heavy to bear. “The Brotherhood assaulted Old North. We lost a lot of good people, including—” she swallows, but can’t dislodge the lump of rock-hard grief in her throat. “Including Glory. She was a dear friend. Dead, and for what? Because synths are evil on principle? Because they’re an abuse of technology that has to be rectified? Because helping someone in need is intolerable if they aren’t human?”

Whatever Nate’s thinking, he doesn’t show it. These are the last echoes of Sergeant Prescott, who can take dire news without a flinch. This conversation belongs between warriors, she supposes. Not lovers.

“So how do you get from Point A to Point Blow Everything Up?”

“We were planning the Institute rebellion, but we couldn’t fight the Brotherhood _and_ the Institute. Dez said we had to take out the Brotherhood first. It was just after we fought off the assault. Glory… there were too many bodies. People I knew. I couldn’t stay there.

“I don’t… remember much. A small group of us fought through a Brotherhood outpost to reach their vertibird and posed as Brotherhood personnel. Infiltrated the Prydwen that way. They were using the airport as a base.” She hesitates. Her next words hold all the regret and bitterness she cannot swallow. “I planted the explosives and bolted. They… never saw it coming.”

Nate clenches and unclenches his jaw. It, and his long silence, are his only tells. “How many people aboard this airship?”

She wraps her arms around herself. “I don’t know! Too many. Not enough. They had small outposts scattered across the Commonwealth, but the bulk of their forces were at the airport.”

Nate turns his head, making the lines of his neck stand out like piano wires. His voice is flat. Cutting. “That’s not a war crime. That’s just war.”

“You can’t tell me you’re okay with this—”

“I’m not. About any of it. You killed an entire contingent of soldiers because, what, you were ordered to? Because you wanted revenge? _But_.” He holds up a hand to stave off her response. “I’m not watching you die now. Find another way to deal with it.”

Kaelyn gives him a weary look. “I sacrificed my morals for my family, and then I sacrificed my family for my morals. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

Nate scrubs a hand over his face. “I need time to think about all this. Don’t wait up.” The door shuts behind him with a flat, final note.

As if she’s going to be able to sleep now.

From the end of the bed, Dogmeat rolls over, knocking himself awake, and whines softly. Kaelyn’s feet carry her to the bed, and she perches on the edge to run her hands through his fur. He butts his head against her side, then rolls to his feet. Shaking himself out, he makes a beeline for her side of the bed. He weasels under her pillow before she can claim it, forcing her to use Nate’s instead when she lies down beside him. It smells like him, which only twists the knife more.

Dogmeat licks the tears from her chin and snuggles against her side.

That night, the dreams come back. Stalking her with dripping black fangs, of frigid sea gales and dark water, of orange and red that burn through her eyelids—

Can’t escape the color—

Someone shakes her.

Kaelyn lurches up, flailing at the bindings that pin her arms to her chest. The roar in her ears drowns out the sound but not the feel of her heart thundering in her chest.

“Kaelyn!”

A pair of hands loosen the bindings that trap her, and she realizes they’re just sweaty sheets. The moment she’s free, she scrubs her hands over her face, wishing it would be so easy to scrub away the images burned behind her retinas like Kodachrome film.

“Honey…”

Shaking loose of Nate’s hand, she removes herself from the bed, from the comfort she doesn’t deserve.

“Bad dream?”

She retreats to the window. Wraps her arms around her ribs, to protect her heart that beats like the kick of a nervous rabbit’s feet. It’s since grown dark, but there’s enough noise in the courtyard that it can’t be late. “Bad memory.”

The sea breeze makes her queasy. Numb echoes of that night pang like pressure on a bruise. It isn’t a cutting pain, but it doesn’t need to be.

Behind her, sheets rustle and feet hit the ground. “Do you regret it?”

“What part?”

“Any of it?”

She stares at the window sill. The mortar is split and crumbling, but the stones still hold firm in its grasp. Two centuries of stains mark the sill, and no amount of scrubbing will ever restore it to what it was. “I regret wiping out the Brotherhood. I regret that Shaun had to see the assault on the Institute. I regret missing his whole life. I regret the man my baby became. I don’t regret blowing the Institute to hell.” A pause. “And that scares me more than anything.”

Nate remains silent. No empathy, no condemnation. Just listening.

Somehow her mouth doesn’t get the memo to stop talking. “Those remainders of the Institute who want me dead for what I did to them? I understand that kind of revenge all too well. But if someone succeeds, if I die, what will you do? What will Nick and Deacon do? When does it end?”

He leans against the wall beside her, eyes glimmering in the dark. “It doesn’t end until you stop. You say you regret it—or enough of it, at least? Then don’t do it again. War makes for an easy justification, but it’s… it’s not enough.”

She closes her eyes. “War never changes. You’re the one who told me that.”

He bows his head. Toys with his dog tags. “Are you ever allowed to forgive the part of you that did that—that is always capable of doing terrible things?”

Silence.

“I… don’t know.”

“This isn’t a free pass. This is an acknowledgment that you’ve changed, a lot, because you had to. Price of admission into the Wasteland. And if you want to change again, then do it. No more blowing up your enemies because _that_ will change you into something you don’t want to be.”

She stares at him wide-eyed. “So… you’re not angry?”

He looks away. One hand wanders across the sill to find hers, and he toys with her fingers. “Oh, I’m pissed. But you loved me when I when I was a soldier, and all that entailed. I can’t give you back any less.”

—

_end part two_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I’m really sorry but MOFOW’s going on a temporary hiatus as I sort out Part 3, which needs more editing to be an ending worthy of my characters and worthy of you guys, since you’ve stuck with me so far. Love you all and hopefully I can resume posting soon!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will resume as normal now! As always, huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing! This chapter is NSFW. SFW version available [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12381385/28/Marriage-and-Other-Forms-of-War).
> 
> **CW for brief mention of suicidal ideation.**

_part three: caught in your own creation_

—

The Accords sprawl across one week and into the next as the delegates debate and haggle and argue. Covenant wants extended trade opportunities without offering a better deal to signatories, Breakheart Banks wants a permanent Minutemen garrison without offering any resources in return, and since rumors of Graygarden have circulated, everyone wants seeds. That puts Warwick on the defensive, since the GMOs are from their farm.

Kessler demands a full retinue of Minutemen to be permanently stationed at Bunker Hill, and her game plan becomes clear. She hasn’t forgotten or forgiven the Minutemen of old for abandoning her settlement when they were needed.

And Goodneighbor? Wants to fight every delegate every time.

“What protections are settlements going to have against ghouls that go feral?” Covenant’s rep, Brian Fitzgerald, leans forward in his seat. “You never know when they’ll turn.”

Hancock snorts. “Oh, I’m going feral at this rate.”

Before it can get out of hand, Kaelyn calls for a fifteen minute recession. As the delegates stand and drift away in twos and threes to stretch their legs, she finds Hancock. “A word?”

He looks her over, a lazy smile curling up the sharp lines of his mouth. “Anything for you, sunshine.”

Gallantly offering her an arm, Hancock leads them out of the room to the battlements, where the ever-roaring wind will all but assure their privacy. Even if Hancock doesn’t appreciate having to hold onto his tricorn hat.

Satisfied they won’t be overheard, Kaelyn leans on the battlement that looks down on the courtyard and waves at Nate, who’s running a training routine. Since Danse’s, ah, _retirement_ , they’re down one trainer and Ronnie is busy with the Accords. “Hancock, your spirit is admirable, but negotiations are delicate. Tactical.”

He lights up a cigarette. “And I’m supposed to let them get away with what they’re doing?”

“No. You’re picking your battles. Lulling them into a false sense of security. Then you trap them with their own words. People are hopeful now, so they’re throwing out some grand statements like ‘a brighter future for all in the Commonwealth’. Let them say it of their own volition, then hold them to it. Remind them what ‘all’ means.”

Hancock takes a slow drag, smoke curling out his ruined nostrils. “When you put it that way, it almost sounds fun. But I don’t like assholes trying to screw people over. Someone’s gotta do something.”

Seeing him now, Kaelyn realizes she’s misjudged him. “How does it go? The best leader is an unwilling one?”

He snickers. “Wish it were that simple.” Digging around his red coat, he fishes out a tin and shakes it. Satisfied by its rattle, he offers it in her direction. “Mentat?”

“No, thank you. Shall we return?”

And on it goes. When Kaelyn isn’t moderating, there’s still plenty of other work to be done. She listens to Curie recount her latest discovery, keeps Cait from starting a brawl, walks Dogmeat on the Castle’s walls. She even gets a rare moment to unwind with Nate.

In the safety of her quarters, Kaelyn can lean heavily on the dresser in front of the mirror, deflating with a sigh. Washing off her makeup feels strange, unfamiliar, a piece of pre-war living she’s somehow recovered and adapted to the post-war world. After scrubbing her face clean, she looks up to find Nate behind her.

He wraps his arms around her waist, kissing and nibbling the junction where her neck meets her shoulder. As his hands drift down her stomach, he asks, “Did I mention how good you look in this getup?”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Nate’s always had a fondness for her business attire.

Leaning back against his chest, she lets him support her weight. “Mmm.”

“Long day at the office?” His fingers toy with the waistline of her skirt.

Even her chuckle sounds tired. “You could say that.”

He pauses. “You up for some trouble tonight, or do you just want some quiet?”

She leans back against his bulk, soaking in his warmth. “I don’t think I can call the shots right now.”

Nate glances up to meet her gaze in the mirror, his mouth hovering over the bite mark he just made. He flashes her a cheeky smile. “Then you can be bottom.”

Kaelyn considers. “Sounds good to me.”

Nate works at the buttons on her blouse, undoing them halfway down her stomach. In the mirror, his eyes blaze green, fixed on her as he slides one hand under her shirt to cup her breast. Kaelyn’s bra mutes the full heat of his touch, even if his thumb skims the edge to just brush her nipple. Shivering at the tease, she arches back against him.

“Bra off. Now.”

Kaelyn moves to obey, but Nate growls when she goes to remove her shirt. With some finangling she slips her bra off from under her shirt.

Nate’s hands are on her again before her bra even hits the floor, cupping her breasts, tracing fire with every stroke of his thumbs. His touch is a curious mix of rough and gentle, callused and controlled.

Whirling Kaelyn around, he drives her against the dresser and pins her there with his body. Nate claims her mouth with bruising force and she permits it, overwhelmed by the raw sensations of his tongue pushing past her lips, his fingers digging into her hips, his knee pressing against her. It borders the edge of too much, too fast.

Nate draws back, and she realizes she’s been tugging on his hair. He cups her jaw with one hand, his thumb smoothing over her cheek. “Gentler?”

“Mmm-hmm. I’m not up to rough and tumble right now.”

“Got it.”

Nate leaves a trail of hot kisses down Kaelyn’s neck, his pace slower than before, paying particular attention to the spot under her jaw that makes her shiver and groan. Working his way lower, his mouth brushes the hollow over her collarbone, then lower still.

Nate swipes his tongue over her nipple and she cries out. With a satisfied hum, he traces a wet path to her other breast to give it similar attention. She gasps at the sensation, hot and aching and safe, and makes a noise of complaint when he draws back.

Nate steers them to the bed. When her knees hit the mattress, he gently swats her rear. “On all fours.”

A little thrill goes through Kaelyn, even if this could ruin her once-neat work clothes. The skirt doesn’t make it easy to crawl on the bed, and its tight fit keeps her thighs all but pinned together.

That simply won’t do. Nate’s hands drag up the outsides of her thighs, his calluses catching on her stockings, and he pulls the hem of her skirt up to bunch around her hips.

“Careful with the garters,” she pants. “Finding one pair of stockings was a miracle. Doubt I’ll— get so lucky again.”

“Oh, you’re getting lucky tonight,” he assures her, and if not for their current position she’d smack him upside the head for that one.

Then he draws her knees apart and they don’t talk after that. For all his earlier dominance, Nate takes it slow. This is a private celebration, relieving the week’s collective tension, and if feels so good to be carried on the currents of desire than to be in control of it. She links their fingers together, and he sighs against her neck.

Afterward, Nate helps her roll onto her side and they strip out of their remaining clothes. Shaking out her hands, she stretches languorously, feeling every pleasant ache and less-than-pleasant strain. They settle together, Kaelyn rolling onto her back so she can see him. She’s had enough of being pressed back-to-chest for one night. His skin is flushed pink and misted with sweat, and he shivers under the breeze that ventures through the window.

Nate’s hair is still tied, so she eases out the band and runs her fingers through his auburn locks. He’s the last thing she sees before sleep claims her.

_—_

The Minutemen’s officers convene in the pre-dawn. It isn’t a secret meeting, exactly, but one to be kept private.

Preston starts once they’re all present, leaning against the nearest available furniture. “We need to decide what kind of role the Minutemen are going to have. In theory it should be simple, but the Accords are going to change that.”

Kaelyn says “It’s a question worth asking. Who will the Minutemen serve? The people, or any future government?”

“The people,” Preston answers at once. “And any people elected in leadership positions should be serving the people, too. So theoretically, the government and the people should be one and the same.”

Never before has Kaelyn been grateful that someone lives in the post-war world, long after the USA’s tyrannical government ceased to exist. She’d refused to place any faith in them for years. “I wouldn’t be making that assumption. Just look at Mayor McDonough and the DC City Council. So if the Minutemen don’t answer to this fledgling government, then we need to make our position clear now and ensure they acknowledge our independence and authority as peacekeepers.”

“I take it this means you want more writing?” Bowen drawls.

“If it protects our independence, yes.”

The document they draw up mostly reaffirms their word-of-mouth reputation: that the Minutemen are an organization who responds to calls for help from the people of the Commonwealth regardless of their race, creed, financial position or signatory status. They are willing to liaise with any future government as long as they respect the Minutemen’s values, but will retain their independence.

No one is willing to sign an army with popular support into the hands of the Accords. Not yet, at least.

When they present the document to the delegation, there are fewer protests than might be expected. Perhaps the Minutemen have cultivated enough goodwill, perhaps no one wants to protest and risk the Minutemen ignoring their future pleas for help, or perhaps Preston is a persuasive force of his own.

It also helps that Preston put it in writing that the Minutemen will not prioritize settlements who sign the Accords over those who don’t.

The next three days pass in long debates over each point in the charter. Yes, ‘person’ includes lucid ghouls but not feral ghouls; no, the Commonwealth can’t extend its territory over its historical borders when they don’t know who has a claim to that land; yes, they’ll agree to issue formal land rights to land owners; no, said rights are not transferable to whoever kills the owner.

Diamond City and Bunker Hill argue over trade rights and tariffs, and Kaelyn has to talk Councilor Meyers and Kessler out of taxing each other’s imports into oblivion, mostly by pointing out trade agreements do not belong in a charter.

At this point, all they agree on the charter that will form the foundation of any further development in the Commonwealth, and a promise that they will convene again in three months.

The Commonwealth Charter is penned and presented to the table. The scribe parts with his only remaining pen, and it gets passed along with the document. Preston’s is the first signature, binding the Minutemen to the agreed terms of their peacekeeper status.

Not everyone signs. Diamond City is the biggest of the abstainers, but Bill of Somerville Place refuses to support what he derides as a ‘pro-ghoul agenda’ and even accuses them of orchestrating a future takeover by ghouls. County Crossing and Murkwater aren’t convinced this venture will benefit their communities, so they opt out for the moment. Covenant only signs at the behest of Stockton, who’s wrapped the settlement around his finger.

With the charter signed, the entire delegation files into the courtyard where the Minutemen assemble, and Kaelyn picks out Nate in the crowd beside Curie. He gives her a thumbs-up, then scoops Dogmeat into his arms so she can see her dog’s head pop up over people’s shoulders.

Preston handles the speech, where he explains what they’ve agreed to and the Accords, and the delegation will hear any complaints to debate any amendments a month from now. Copies of the charter will be penned and handed out to the signatory settlements. Even if most of them don’t have the same appreciation for paperwork that Kaelyn does, that document signals a change in the Commonwealth.

_—_

That night, Kaelyn slips away from the celebrations at The Minute’s Rest. Venturing onto the battlements when a fierce gale threatens to toss the very Castle itself off the cliff and into the sea is something of a bad idea, but Kaelyn does it anyway. A figure sits by one of the crenelations, watching the wan dusk light dance silver-blue on the ocean’s surface. His tan coat stretches across his broad shoulders, and for once his head is bare of any hat lest the wind snap it up.

Found him.

Kaelyn eases down beside Preston and neither feel the need to talk, not after a fortnight of doing nothing but. Below, the ocean is choppy; cresting waves are emerald mountains capped by a frosting of white sea spray.

“We did it. Can you believe it?”

“No,” Kaelyn says, drawing a snort from Preston. She bumps his shoulder. “Another one for the Minutemen.”

Preston’s smile is as rare and precious as diamonds. “You bet. Not bad when we were down to just the two of us not so long ago.”

“Not bad at all.” Having learned from her time up here with Deacon, Kaelyn leans into Preston’s side just before another gale tries to whisk them off the walls. “You know, after Codsworth, you were the first friendly face I saw after leaving the vault. I was alone and afraid of this new world, but there you were.”

“Funny, because the way you’re talking sounds awfully similar to how I’d describe that night at the museum.” Even though he isn’t usually the hugging type, Preston wraps an arm around her shoulders. “You found me at my worst. I honestly thought we weren’t going to make it, and I… was okay with that. I watched everything that ever mattered to me fall apart. I failed in every way. Not saying I would have put a gun to my head, but… I wouldn’t have taken care of myself. Wouldn’t have cared to.”

The admission strikes a little too close to home, brushing against the memory of the nights Kaelyn spent just waiting, of days she spent walking into danger after danger, because the prospect of dying held more intrigue than fear.

Kaelyn reaches up to grab the hand draped over her shoulder. When she squeezes, he squeezes back. “I’m glad you’re still alive, Preston. I’m glad you fought it off.”

“Me too.” He lets out a breath, something that’s too cathartic to qualify as a sigh. “And I’m glad you’re here, too.”

“Thanks, Preston.”

This isn’t the kind of future she ever wanted, but maybe, just maybe, there’s something they can make of it.

_—_

With the Accords over and the delegations drifting back to their settlements, Kaelyn feels an odd lack of urgency. She isn’t late for a meeting or behind on paperwork, and struggles to fill the gap left behind. Alas, the quiet lasts only two days. Nick Valentine strolls through the Castle’s courtyard, his coat and fedora getup looking as tired and patchy as the rest of the pre-war relics that surround them.

“There you are. I hear the talks were a roaring success?”

Kaelyn squeezes Valentine's arm. “Maybe not roaring, but nobody died. So it’s a success all the same. You need me for something?”

“Yeah. Got something for you, but it's not the kind of gift people usually like.” He pauses to survey her with his molten yellow gaze, from the crown of her head to her boots. “Found a lead in the quaint little town of West Everett. You better see for yourself. We can't keep them waiting.”

Of course Nate comes with, and Cait’s bored enough she jumps on the opportunity for action. On the road, Valentine explains. He’d made his way to the settlement where the raiders had been hired to kidnap Kaelyn and found a better lead than he’d expected.

“In all honesty, it was something of a coincidence,” he admits. “I was running questions by the locals when this dame walks into the bar.”

“Is this the beginning of a bad joke?” Nate asks.

Valentine flashes a quick smile. “Near as I can tell, those are your specialty, not mine. So the barkeep swore he remembered this woman from the group that come in a while back. Had the look of raiders. But what's interesting is who they met. See, the town had hosted a stranger with a frighteningly quiet bodyguard for a week. His caps were good enough that people smiled through their discomfort. This stranger hadn't been quiet in his disdain for the settlement, and his bodyguard had been his own brand of trouble.”

Kaelyn arches an eyebrow at this. “Did the bodyguard wear black? Sunglasses?”

“Folks gave me odd looks when I asked, but the answer’s yes.”

She slumps, a marionette with a single thread cut. These people probably had no idea how close they were to brushing death’s coattails. Then again, by the sound of it, they were aware on some level, the way a rabbit senses the shadow of a hawk.

“Hold up a sec,” Nate says. “You mentioned that woman came back? That's how you learned of this? What happened to her?”

“Gracing the inside of a cell,” Valentine says.

Kaelyn's second eyebrow joins her first. “What's the charge, detective?”

“Drunk and disorderly. I may have pulled a few strings to keep her in lockup until we’ve spoken to her.”

Kaelyn clicks her tongue at him, but Nate approves. Cait, who has absorbed all this information in silence, says, “Then what’re we waitin’ for?”

West Everett is rather large for a settlement, as evidenced by its bar and jail. Built into the ruins of a pre-war suburb, they’ve fixed up a number of the pre-fab houses—aided by the building supplies for the unfinished houses—and repaired the walls built by its old occupants. If said wall is only two meters high and made of plywood and car doors, well, it's better than nothing. It granted a measure of protection from raiders.

Nothing remains of the super mutants who once occupied the suburb, and Kaelyn’s glad. Instead, a Minutemen flag flies from a power pole, and the settlers lower their weapons at a flash of Kaelyn's own laser musket.

Valentine takes a sharp right to one of the smaller houses whose roof has been ripped clean off and steps inside. A man sits behind the desk, looking utterly bored. He straightens at the sight of visitors and puts on an official scowl.

“I hope you have good reason to be here. We don't let just anyone in to speak to prisoners.”

Valentine says, “Remember me? My partner and I were hoping to speak to that charming dame from the bar fight.”

The guard’s scowl deepens, and he huffs a sigh. “Only because you're the one who put her on the floor in the first place. Go on down the stairs.”

The basement has been renovated to hold two cells, and there's another guard sprawled in a chair, tapping her swatter against the ground. At the sound of the door opening, a voice from the lone occupied cell shouts, “Oi! You got nothing on me, so just let me out already! I’ve known raiders more merciful than you!”

“Charming,” Nate mutters.

Kaelyn, meanwhile, pauses at the familiar tone. Valentine cocks his head, watching her, but before he can ask, she rounds the corner to know for sure.

Kaelyn freezes. Her eyes are as wide as the woman's before her. “You…”

Behind the bars, the woman recovers, her gaze flicking over Kaelyn's shoulder to the people who followed her in. “Can't say I was expecting this turnaround.”

Valentine and Nate look between the two women, puzzled. Kaelyn makes a _later_ gesture.

“Neither was I. But you have information that can help me. You saw the person who hired your gang to kidnap me?”

The woman drops into the tiny stool she was given and slings her feet on the coffee table. “What's it worth to you?”

“Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll see that you're released.”

Her eyes narrow. “Get me out of here first.”

“No deal. You talk to me first. You saved my life, once, so what makes you think I won't return the favor?”

She grunts, turns her head away. Underneath her elbows, her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Couldn't tell you much. I was just a guard—supposed to watch the door.”

“And did you?”

She smirks. “This guy you're after, I never caught his name. But he was too clean. Thought he was better than everyone else. But the caps were too good to pass up. We didn't actually discuss details in the bar. Too many ears, you know? There's an old church at the top of the hill, about two miles from here. Smug bastard said it was appropriate to meet there when he’d caught his enemies hiding in there like rats or some bullshit. Bet his pet guard did all the real fighting.” She turns her head to spit.

Kaelyn makes a mental note to check with Dez on which runner routes have been hit. “Since he wanted me alive, there had to be some mention of delivery.”

Beside her, Nate clenches his fists.

The raider watches her back, eyes flat and hard like two silver coins. Then she makes a snap decision. “Place called The Smiling Mirelurk,” she says. “East outskirts of Lexington. That's where we were supposed to take you once we’d received word they were ready. Something about security. Whatever you did to them, they were gonna make sure you wouldn't escape.”

Valentine asks, “How would they know? How were you in contact with them?”

“Supposed to send someone to wait for orders. Guess they were watching the place. ‘S why we held you for so long.” Her gaze flicks back to Kaelyn. “That's all I know. So get on with it.”

Kaelyn assesses her with her lawyer’s keen perception. Possessing a keen sense of when someone is withholding information, she draws out the second of silence to sweat out the raider, just in case. Satisfied there's nothing more to be learned from her, her group retreats up the stairs to talk to the ill-tempered guard.

With no more protests, Kaelyn arranges the release with the guards, and she forks over the fee. She's getting stiffed and they all know it, but the guard refuses all attempts at haggling.

“How does she know about Shaun?”

“Because I told her. She lost her family, too. And a little empathy can go a long way.”

Nate pulls her aside, his hands on her shoulders. “This is the woman who broke you out?”

Kaelyn nods. “One and only.”

He blows out a noisy breath. “Then I guess I owe her. For your sake. Still, would’ve been nice if she hadn't been a part of the raiders who kidnapped you in the first place.”

“If she hadn't been there, I never would have gotten free.”

Cait is equally unimpressed. “You're gonna waste yer caps on her?”

“It's not a waste,” Kaelyn corrects. “It's repayment. I owe her a debt, and this will clear it.”

It's a logic that works on Cait. She subsides, if reluctantly. “Knew you were always as good as yer word. Fine. But don't expect me to shout you a drink when you're piss poor.”

From the way the raider’s eyes widen when the guard unlocks her cell and returns her personal effects, she hadn't been expecting Kaelyn to keep her word. Her gaze skips over the guard’s shoulder to find Kaelyn watching by the stairs.

She sidesteps around the guard and heads for the door, which requires passing Kaelyn. “Yeah, now I’m gone. Nothing left for me in the Commonwealth but a rope around my neck if my old _friends_ ever find me.”

“They're dead,” Kaelyn blurts. “The Institute sent synths to wipe them out when they failed to hand me over, for obvious reasons.”

She freezes mid-step. “The _Institute_? That can't be right.”

“Long story short, they're the ones who kidnapped my son.” The raider’s face clouds with the memory of their conversation, so Kaelyn ignores Nate's sharp look and continues, “Whatever's left of them want me. At this point, I’m not sure alive or dead.”

“Bloody Institute,” she hisses.

“Can you really complain if it means your old buddies won't be coming after ya?” Valentine asks.

The former raider clenches her jaw. Then the hard line of her shoulders eases and she inclines her head. “Thanks. We're even now.”

“Go in peace,” Kaelyn tells her, and steps aside.

The raider snorts, but throws her jacket around her shoulders and strides out the door without comment.

Gossip travels fast around settlements, thanks to the monotony of general living, and Kaelyn isn’t particularly surprised to see almost a half-dozen people loitering in the street when they emerge from the basement.

One looks more nervous than most, to the point Nate sidles up to Kaelyn’s side, covering her flank. He’s been twitchier since the Danse incident, and she can’t blame him.

Deceptively casual, Nate calls out to the man wringing his hands, “Everything okay, buddy?”

The man looks between the three of them. “I don't suppose you’ve seen my wife anywhere? This tall, frizzy red hair, tanned? I'm— I’m worried about her.”

His weary desperation speaks to the remembered fear in her heart. Beside her, Nate tightens his grip on her shoulder, his mouth slanting in a grim line. Of course he’d have more recent experience on the matter.

“Missing person, eh?” Valentine’s gaze is intent on Roge. “When did she go missing? Did you see anybody skulking near your property around the time she vanished?”

“No one.

“I’m a detective. If you like, I can do some digging, see if I can't uncover what happened to your dame.” He doesn't make any promises of finding a loved one alive. He never does, not without cause.

Roge opens his mouth, then pauses. From the way his gaze flits doubtfully over Valentine, the synth in old world dress, the cause of his hesitation is obvious.

Kaelyn drapes one hand across the table. “It's okay. Nick took on my case when my son was kidnapped. Missing persons are his specialty.”

He draws in a breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“Do you mind if we take a look around your property?” Nick asks. “Could be a clue to why she vanished.”

Roge agrees, taking them to a small shack near the mutfruit orchard. It’s smaller than the pre-war prefabs, featuring yellow tile walls supported by old timber and plywood. Roge allows them to search everywhere, which adds a point in his favor that this isn’t a ruse.

The search turns up nothing.

“No note, no known enemies, no ransom demand…” Valentine muses. “There’s something we’re missing here.”

They leave Roge with only a promise of further investigation.

While they're here, they check out the tavern where the gang first made contact with the Institute. It's a simple fare, unmemorable, and meets the standard layout of a bar with tables and a counter. It also doubles as a diner, as evidenced by the number of people eating lunch.

To sweeten up the barkeep, Kaelyn purchases lunch for the members of their group who require sustenance. The barkeep throws Valentine a wayward look, but doesn't comment.

Kaelyn opens with, “A few months ago you had a visitor. Ill-tempered, had a bodyguard, had a conference with several people of suspect character?”

The barkeep glances up from counting his caps. “Yeah, think I know who you’re talking about. Right bastard he was, but we can't afford to turn down those caps.”

“Can you tell me about him?”

“Kept to himself when he wasn't insulting the town. Even went to visit the outer walls just to laugh. But then again, that might be the one thing I can't hold against him.”

“Did you catch a name?”

He scratches his graying whiskers. “I heard… oh, what was it? Rhymed with mayo…”

Her face prickles as her breath leaves in a rush. “Justin Ayo?”

The barkeep snaps his fingers. “That's the one.”

—

“Hold on a second.” Nate has to jog to keep pace with his wife. “Just tell me what this means. Who is this guy?”

Kaelyn doesn't slow from her quick pace, even if her voice is breathy. “Justin Ayo is the acting head of the Synth Retention Bureau. He controls the coursers, and he's responsible for tracking down runaway synths. I thought he died in the rebellion. The SRB saw the hardest fighting.”

“So this is our guy? And where are we going?”

“To the nearest dead drop so I can pass on the intel to HQ.”

At last she finds her target: an old mail box with a railsign painted on the side in chipped paint. Plucking the wrapped holotape from her pocket, she duct tapes it inside.

_“This is Whisper. Justin Ayo, head of SRB, was at West Everett a few months back with a courser bodyguard. He’s the one who organized my kidnapping. He also apparently bragged about wiping out our operations at Hope Union Pentecostal Church. Whisper out.”_

Nate watches with his arms folded across his chest. “We still don't know where he is.”

Her shoulders slump. “I know. But it's something.”

They investigate the church, and find a trio of half-rotten bodies dragged into one corner. Kaelyn finds the checkpoint railsign above the pulpit, slashed through with blood. The smell alone is enough to ward off anyone from investigating too closely, and the bodies are too decomposed to determine their identities, anyway.

Still. Who and why are obvious at this point. Carbon scoring mottles the walls with black, confirming the use of laser weaponry. Valentine and Kaelyn turn over the place for clues, but only find the cellar with a half-dozen sleeping bags and a few crates of supplies.

From there, it's onto the place of delivery. Lexington.

Despite knowing that the window of opportunity has long since passed, and knowing she has three people with her plus Dogmeat, Kaelyn still feels uneasy at the prospect.

Cait knocks her ribs with an elbow. “Don't worry. I’ve got yer back. Remember to fight like a woman if we meet any trouble.”

It helps, as does the way Nate pulls her back against his chest when they sleep that night, his hand resting on her hip like a promise.

They reach the outskirts of Lexington in the late afternoon, and pause to decide whether they want to investigate right away or wait for morning. Kaelyn is of two minds: they have scant hours before sunset, but the cloak of night suits them as much as any Institute forces. Then again, good visibility and daylight hours could help them, too.

Down the hill, the woods falter at the edge of suburbia but have made a gallant attempt at reclaiming sidewalks with trees and weeds. Kaelyn watches the distant movement of people, crawling like ants between buildings.

“Let's do it now.”

Her vote is decisive. Best to get it over with, and maybe the darkness will conceal her features in case anyone might recognize her.

The settlement is little more than a diner and its neighboring building, but there's a sharpshooter on the roof. Cait and Nate form a vanguard to attract attention away from Kaelyn and Valentine, and between their broad shoulders, they block off casual view. Glancing around, Kaelyn spots only a man behind the diner counter, the broken windows offering an undistorted view of what's inside.

The door admits them into the diner with a cheery ding, and the man straightens. His sandy blond hair is tucked into a cap, with only a stray lock peeping free to betray the color. “Welcome, friends. This is The Smiling Mirelurk. Afraid we don't serve alcohol, but we got just about everything else.”

Kaelyn leans on the counter and offers a smile. Covers her wedding ring with her fingers, just in case. “How’s business in these parts?”

“Good, good,” he enthuses. “We’ve been seeing a lot of traffic. Travelers and scavengers, mostly. What brings you here?”

“Traveling on business. Ended up trekking halfway across the Commonwealth.”

He makes a face at that, perhaps betraying his years spent in the safety of the Institute's halls. “Did you have a safe trip?”

“Can’t complain. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” he says, surprisingly soft. “Terrible up here. Anyway, can I get you something?”

Kaelyn browses the wares on display and stocks up on purified water while she’s here, since the diner is carrying a surprising amount. They must’ve found a crate in the basement or something. With the shopkeeper’s mood lifted by the exchange of caps, she feels safe enough to ask, “You get raiders turning up at all?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” he assures her.

“I heard sometimes they send in a single scout to case the place.” It’s a total lie, but Kaelyn needs to know if the raider the gang sent ended up meeting with an Institute contact.

“Hard to tell dirty Wastelanders from dirty raiders sometimes,” he grouses. He’s about to turn to the cash register, then pauses, eyes widening. “Does dressing your synth up actually help it blend in?”

In a way, it's a relief that the Institute don't recognize Nick Valentine. If they don't know about him, he's not a target. “A little humanity goes along way.”

The shopkeeper doesn't quiet grasp her insult, even if Valentine stifles a chortle behind her.

Kaelyn walks right out with a smile and a wave from the diner owner, masking her frustration.

“What are we doing?” Cait hisses. At least she waits until they're out of earshot. “We need to squeeze pretty boy down there for information. He knows something, mark me words.”

“I’m wondering what the plan is, myself,” Nate admits.

Valentine, however, has run with her long enough to know she considers her options before picking a fight. “Gonna pass the word on to your friends?”

“Deacon, specifically. He’ll see the wisdom in spying on this place, maybe tailing whoever passes through here. The Institute was watching this place at some point. Maybe they still are.”

Tracking Deacon down is easier said than done, but word always manages to reach him and then _he_ finds _her_. He catches up to them at Bunker Hill, and all that alerts Kaelyn to his sudden presence is a flash of sunlight on his glasses.

“Deacon!” She spreads her arms. “Or is it Dave? Or Richard?”

“Keep your voice down. I don't want to be associated with any of those men who look nothing like me.”

Since Cait doesn't know about the Railroad, Kaelyn and Deacon retreat while she's browsing the market for shotgun mods. They find their perch at the top of the obelisk and look out over the settlement. Now that a permanent garrison of Minutemen is stationed here, some of whom relocated with their families, business is roaring. Kessler must be pleased, even if she doesn't trust the Minutemen. Her own guards have doubled in number.

“So what's the situation?”

“Found an outpost where the raider gang was supposed to transfer me to Institute custody. We couldn’t find anything untoward when we scouted the place, so maybe the Institute’s stopped watching it. Lots of through traffic but few people permanently stationed there.”

Deacon taps his chin as he thinks. “What are you planning?”

“To get eyes on the outpost. Maybe we can dig up something on the Institute.”

Deacon’s head twitches just slightly to her right, the way he does when he's checking the entrance behind her. But he doesn't tense, so it's just a random check. “I knew I trained you well.”

“Can you convince the others that this is the best course of action? Dez listens to your input more than mine.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Considering how much you brag about it, I’m damn well expecting her full support.”

Deacon bows in his chair. “I knew I trained you well.”

A week later, word trickles back to Kaelyn through a holotape duct taped to the inside of her mailbox. The agent’s voice is unfamiliar. _”Your plan is a go. Watchers have been stationed at the aforementioned location.”_


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing! This chapter is NSFW towards the end. SFW version available [here.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12381385/29/Marriage-and-Other-Forms-of-War).

In the time since she arrived at the Castle, Curie has established a lab of sorts in the corner of the infirmary to study whatever takes her fancy when she isn’t tending to the wounded. Unbroken vials and beakers hold an array of substances, kept separate from the stacks of folders scattered across the desk. A minefield of boxes makes it difficult to even approach the workstation. There’s something endearing about the fact not even a robot can keep a desk tidier than organized chaos. Right now enough space has been cleared on the desktop for a pile of debris combed from the beach.

Since it’s been weeks since Kaelyn’s fielded a strange requisition from the infirmary, she checks in on Curie.

Curie waves a shell in her pincer. “Bonjour, madame! I was examining sea shells. Their hinges are simply fascinating, and the variety of texture in the different types of shells begs the question of their function.”

“Sounds interesting. Have you made much progress cataloging the world?”

“Oh, there is so much to discover, and so little time. I have so much new data to process, I fear I may need to delete data from before the Great War to make room.”

“Don’t!” The word bursts from Kaelyn’s chest. “I mean, we’ve already lost so much knowledge. The thought of losing more is…”

Curie fixes all of her eye stalks on Kaelyn. “Painful,” she says. “I understand, madame. It seems almost criminal to squander what historical data I possess, and yet I am blocked from moving forward with my research. It is… most frustrating.”

That’s easy to believe when Curie’s drooping eye stalks turn this way and that, artificial irises narrowed, and her limbs are folded tight against her chassis.

Most Handy bots freely admit their emotions are mere programming. This is something else.

Kaelyn mulls over the problem. “What if we copied your data to an external drive? Could that work? That way there’s a backup of all your data.”

“Were you to find a compatible drive? Yes, I believe so.”

Kaelyn sinks a week into this newest project, scouring the Commonwealth for working Handy bot parts. Between what she can buy and what she can salvage, she ends up with seven usable memory drives. Valentine lends his computing expertise toward wiping and reformatting the drives, and they scrounge up a working terminal to facilitate the transfer.

The process takes most of a day, Curie tethered to a terminal via an electrical cable, and fills three hard drives. The first thing Kaelyn does is make a backup of the backup, and stores them separately in waterproof anti-static boxes Sturges prepared for her.

Curie endures the whole thing in an uncharacteristic silence. At first Kaelyn figures her processing power is occupied by the data flow, but it persists after the backup is sent with a caravan to Amari for safekeeping.

Resting one hand on the remaining box, Kaelyn asks, “You aren’t happy this data is safe?”

“I am, madame, I assure you. It is not that. It’s just that I am reminded of my nature, as a robot. I fear I cannot make a mark on the world like… this.” Curie gestures to herself.

Kaelyn claims a neglected seat beside the workbench and settles in for a long conversation. “I don’t follow.”

Curie says, “Humans have a spark. Inspiration! I am thwarted by my own capabilities. I have spent much effort gathering information. And my self-diagnostics have come to a grim conclusion: it is not a lack of data or lack of collaboration which stifles my scientific progress. No, the inescapable truth is that there has never been a great robot scientist.”

Kaelyn arches an eyebrow. “You alone created a broad spectrum cure because you’re you. You’ve lived for two hundred years, and you’ll continue to function until your parts give up. Humans don’t have that kind of longevity or that kind of built-up experience. Who knows, maybe you could be the first great robot scientist.”

Curie’s processor fans whir as she takes in that idea. “You are kind to say so, madame, but I fear it is not so simple. On our own, robots tread predictable paths, limited by our programming. If something does not change, my efforts will be mere stagnation. The greatest scientific minds, the Einsteins and Curies, had something beyond raw data analysis capabilities. I must possess the same elusive inspiration they had.”

Drumming her fingers on her thigh, Kaelyn wonders, “Do you have any ideas where you might find this… inspiration?”

Without pause, without hesitation, Curie says, “I must become human. Or as close to it at possible.”

Even with all her experience with synths, Kaelyn still double takes. “You’re saying you want a human body?”

“Precisely! Of course, I do not where one might find a willing body…”

Kaelyn snaps her fingers. “I do. Dr Amari in Goodneighbor. If anyone can help you, she can.”

This is the worst nightmare of both the Brotherhood and the Institute, but Curie has benign intentions and enough sense to to not be a danger.

Curie bobs in place. “Thank you, madame, for all your help. Perhaps this is an impossibility, but this must be pursued. I need to know.”

Kaelyn stands up to leave, then pauses. “Curie… there are a lot of things about being human that you need to know about. Our bodies have a number of requirements and functions that robots don’t.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I am aware of the human digestive system, required daily calorie intake, and even the menstrual cycle.”

Kaelyn sits back down. Just because she knows doesn’t mean she _understands_.

They talk late into the night, and there’s no time for embarrassment at being frank when Curie, removed from cultural taboos and guided by curiosity, has no shame. She isn’t dissuaded at all, so Kaelyn finds Nate to tell him of their impending trip.

Taking to the storeroom to stock up on supplies for the trip attracts the attention of one Cait. She clomps up the stairs with her heavy gait, offering ample warning before she darkens the doorway. “I’m coming with. Need to get out of this place. All the _talking_ curdles me stomach. I need fun and action.”

Kaelyn doesn’t miss the way Cait again eyes her pip-boy. “Of course. We’d be glad to have you along.”

It’s something of a relief that night, packing with Nate, readying to stretch their legs. Funny how Kaelyn’s spent more time in the Castle as a colonel than she did during her entire tenure as general. At the time, the Railroad’s demands had taken precedence since they fought the Institute directly. And now it’s time to move on again.

“It’s almost a shame to go back to my usual attire after a few weeks of normalcy.” With a mournful look, she folds up her laundered blouse and skirt.

Nate runs a hand down her back. “If it makes you feel better, I’m sure you’ll have cause to wear it again. Some rep will try to walk over everyone else, and you’ll have to whip him into shape.”

“On second thought, bring on my road leathers.”

Their trip is swift and smooth, and the only one disappointed by it is Cait. She frequently disappears for a few minutes and returns with an extra bounce in her flagging step. When they’re secure inside Goodneighbor’s walls, she says, “I know where I’ll be. Feel free to join me if you want some fun after all.” With that, she lopes to the Third Rail with her arms swinging. Her swagger almost distracts from the sweat on her brow and her winded breath.

Nate touches Kaelyn’s shoulder, then clicks his tongue for Dogmeat to follow him. “I’ll leave you ladies to it. Good luck, Curie. Looking forward to seeing the new you.”

“Thank you, monsieur! I look forward to seeing with human eyes.”

The Memory Den is a familiar fixture, and Kaelyn frequents this part of town often enough that the Neighborhood Watch don’t pay it any mind. The Den’s elite clientele allow the place to retain a sense of cleanliness and mystique, with its dusted maroon curtains and plush carpets. Curie is fascinated by the memory loungers, but Kaelyn hurries her along. Between her jaunt into Kellogg’s mind and her stint using the loungers as a crutch, she doesn’t want to linger.

Irma welcomes Kaelyn back with a wink and sly smile. “Next time you see Nick, remind him to drop by.”

“I will. Is Amari down the back?”

Irma waves a neatly manicured hand at the door to the stairs. “Go ahead, sweetheart.”

Amari looks up from her terminal at Kaelyn’s knock. She arches an eyebrow when she recognizes Kaelyn, to be joined by the other when she notices the Nanny bot in tow. “What can I do for you?”

“Dr Amari, this is Curie. Curie, Dr Amari. She might be able to help.”

Curie bobs in place, one eye stalk focused on Amari while the other two survey the lab. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, madame. I wish to download my data and core programming into a human brain.”

Amari sucks in a breath. “You want to _what?_ Are you serious?” She turns to Kaelyn. “Is she serious?”

Kaelyn nods. “She’s hoping to continue her research as a human and find better success.”

At Amari’s raised eyebrow, Curie explains, “I was programmed before the Great War to further our understanding of disease, pathogens and viruses. Yet I find I lack the trait of human inspiration, and this hinders my work. If I become human, I hope I can utilize my data banks of knowledge for the betterment of the Commonwealth.”

“A pre-war robot with your knowledge and human cognition… yes, you could save many lives.” Settling her weight on one leg, Amari taps her chin while she thinks. Kaelyn’s been through several strange requests before, so she knows to just wait Amari out.

Once Amari’s initial reservations are overcome, her scientific curiosity and problem-solving drive does the rest. “The memories wouldn’t be hard. The loungers work by translating memory from the brain to a computer, and this would be no different. Your personality, though? All the extra pieces of robotic programming? It wouldn’t compute in a purely organic brain.”

Curie prompts, “So that means…?”

“A synth brain is somewhere between organic and synthetic. If anything would do, it would.”

Dread pools in Kaelyn’s gut. “Uh, doctor, where are we going to get a synth body from? I can’t kill a synth for this.”

Amari says, “Don’t worry. You won’t have to. You know of the mind wipes I perform for synths seeking a new life. What you may not know is that the procedure sometimes fails, leaving synths brain dead. I know of one who might suit, and can contact her caretaker to request her consent.”

Kaelyn shifts on her feet. Even if brain dead is effectively dead, it doesn’t have the same finality as a stopped heart. “Your thoughts, Curie?”

Curie replies, “I cannot bear for one to die so that I may live as a human, but if this synth is brain dead, then nothing can be done for her. If her caretaker will listen, I would like to ask her permission.”

Amari inclines her head. “Then I’ll contact the caretaker. Give me a day to make the arrangements.” Before they leave, Amari raises an eyebrow. “Why is it you always arrive on my doorstep with the strangest requests?”

“Two reasons. One, you possess an unparalleled expertise on the brain. Two, my life is strange.”

Amari frowns. “I don’t know if _strange_ begins to cover it.”

It takes them twenty minutes to find Nate. He’s booked them all hotel rooms at the Rexford but isn’t present himself, nor is he in The Third Rail. A member of the Neighborhood Watch points them to the marketplace, where they find Nate awkwardly shrugging off KL-E-0’s morbid flirting while Dogmeat noses at an empty box on the ground.

“Honey! There you are!” Even if Nate is easy with affection, he doesn’t normally reel her in to kiss her cheek then cling to her side afterward.

Perhaps fortuitously, KL-E-0 is more interested in Curie “Well, hello. I sell only the finest weapons, all tested on live targets. If a pretty thing like you needs to dress up her sawblade, I have just the upgrade for you.”

Curie casts one eye over the stock, but her artificial iris narrows at the extensive arsenal. “Good day, madame. You are the shopkeeper of this store?”

Kaelyn helps Nate bag up the ammo he bought, and notices the other supplies he’s purchased from around town.

KL-E-0’s red optic shifts from Nate to Kaelyn and back again. “It’s amazing what a large barrel will do for you. I assume your partner will be satisfied with it, as well?”

Nate chokes. “Uh, thanks. We’ll just… be going now.”

Outside, Kaelyn raises an eyebrow at him. “What’s all this?”

Nate raises his hands. “I had no idea that assaultrons could take up the merchant trade or be interested in anybody like… that.”

“Yeah, she’s one of a kind. I meant the supplies.”

“Oh. Right.” Nate sweeps his arm out in the direction of the Rexford and the three of them arrange themselves in a loose triangle around the goods, in case any pickpockets take note. “Radio Freedom. Word is the meat from Longneck Lukowski’s Cannery has been making people sick. The Minutemen sent someone to investigate the cannery, but no one’s seen him in several days.”

Keeping one eye out for any would-be muggers, Kaelyn asks, “If it’s food related, that means it’s urgent?”

“Yeah, not to mention this missing person. I’ll check out the cannery, hon. You stay here with Curie and Cait.”

She’s about to volunteer to go with him—but no. They wouldn’t return in time for Curie’s appointment and if moving a brain-dead synth is involved, it won’t be a simple matter of rescheduling for a later day. Besides, every time Nate has protested her going somewhere alone, she’s brushed him off.

If they’re to build any kind of stable future here, Kaelyn has to trust that he can handle himself. Without her. “I understand. If I’m being honest, hon, I don’t want you going alone. But I know that’s hypocritical.”

Frankly, she doesn’t know if it would be a good idea to send Cait with him. Cait’s too wary of the world to be reliable backup.

Nate beams at her. “Wasn’t planning on it. Hired a merc to watch my back. I don’t know if I believe he’s the best sharpshooter in the ’Wealth, but he’s got a decent reputation. You keep Dogmeat to watch your back here. We’ll head out in the morning.”

Nate’s departure looms with the approaching sunrise. Kaelyn helps him pack, and halts him before he vanishes out the door. She rests Nate’s hand palm-up in her own, and settles her gift in his palm. The chain molds to the contour lines like rainwater tracking a creek bed, spilling over the sides of his hand in tiny metallic waterfalls. “I want these back.”

Her engagement ring with its modest inset diamond dangles beside her promise ring on a mismatched chain of silver. Nate circles the callused pads of his fingers over the twin bands; they can barely crown his thumb. He nods, then breaks his solemn expression with a smile and grips her chin to kiss her.

Nate runs his fingers through her hair. “I’ll be back in a few days, okay? I’ll radio the Castle if need be.”

“I love you, honey. Be safe out there.”

“Back at you on both counts.” With a final kiss just under her jaw, Nate hefts his bag and rattles down the stairs.

—

In Goodneighbor, there are any number of ways to pass the time while they wait for Amari to make arrangements with the synth’s caretaker. None of those options appeal to Kaelyn. Curie floats over to the Memory Den to perform her last self-diagnostics under Amari’s watch, to prepare for the upcoming transfer.

Kaelyn feels strange sitting at a bar at lunch time, Dogmeat lounging at her feet, but there’s no other place to congregate for food with a low chance of being stabbed. Unlike pre-war establishments, nothing will get in the way of Whitechapel Charlie and his mission to supply alcohol, so numerous people are indulging already.

Cait flops down at the bar beside Kaelyn, who pushes a plate of mystery meat chops in Cait’s direction. That draws her up short, eyes narrowing, shoulders tensing, fingers curling into the meat of her thighs. “What’s this for?”

“Eating. You might want a fork.” Kaelyn then pushes over the utensil, resting on a napkin.

Cait twitches, her biceps flexing, her hard jade gaze fixed unerringly on the bowl.

Fighting a sigh, Kaelyn leans over to grab a forkful from Cait’s dish and pops it in her mouth. “It’s not poisoned. I’m shouting lunch.” Just to make things even, Kaelyn scoops a forkful of her own meal back into Cait’s bowl. Dogmeat noses at her leg, so she drops another forkful onto the floor for him.

It doesn’t reassure Cait in the slightest, but she resigns herself to picking up the fork. After the first tentative mouthful, she shovels the rest into her mouth. Around a half-chewed hunk of meat, she says, “I’ll pay you back.”

Kaelyn waves her off.

A man lands at the bar on Kaelyn’s other side, shoving her aside as he waves an arm at Charlie. She gives him a swift glare, and that’s exactly the wrong thing to do.

“Whatcha looking at, sweetheart?” Pushing a greasy lock of blond hair out of his face, he leers at her. “Charlie! Get this wench here something to cool her off.”

“Don’t,” Kaelyn calls. “I’m not paying for it.” At her feet, Dogmeat stands between them, his hackles rising. The bar is too noisy to hear the first rumblings of his growl.

Whitechapel Charlie makes an unflattering noise. “No caps, no drink.”

“I was just trying to do something nice,” the stranger laments, “and you have to be a bitch about it.”

“Oi! What’d you say?” Cait’s chair scrapes a warning cry against the tiles as she pushes to her feet. The noise attracts attention from nearby onlookers, including the stranger’s friends.

With his backup pushing through the crowd, Blondie puffs up his chest. “I said, she’s a—”

Cait decks him. He drops to the floor, clutching his nose, and his friends are on them. Standing in front of Kaelyn, flexing her considerable biceps in a showman’s maneuver that wouldn’t look out of place in an arena, but it isn’t enough to warn away Blondie’s friends. Kaelyn grabs Dogmeat’s kerchief to keep him out of it.

Blondie’s first wingman jumps in, only to get his head slammed into the counter top.

“Oi!” Charlie yells.

Cait’s too busy throwing the wingman onto Blondie, sending them both back to the floor in a tangle of limbs and bruises. She barks a laugh, low and hard—while the third man behind her draws a knife.

“Look out!” Kaelyn yells.

Cait twists, raising an arm to block. The knife leaves an angry line down her forearm, welling with red beads. She snarls and slips through his guard to shove him back. He staggers back several steps but regains his balance.

By now everyone’s watching the show. Magnolia murmurs to a ghoul, who darts up the stairs. Cait grabs a bar stool, ignoring Charlie’s indignant squawk, and uses it to keep Knife Man at bay. She swats his knife hand with the chair seat, and the weapon clatters to the ground.

Cait then slams his chest with the stool. He doubles over, wheezing, and she raises the stool over his head—

“Woah, woah! Everybody take a breath and relax.” It’s no one but Hancock, Fahrenheit a fixture by his side. Both have weapons drawn. Hancock’s is just a knife, no doubt _the_ knife, which raises the hairs on the back of Kaelyn’s neck.

Cait lowers the chair just an inch. But the last of her rage subsides, leaving her slumped and weary.

“Problem?” Hancock asks, directing the question to Kaelyn.

Kaelyn holds up a hand to forestall Cait’s retort. “That charming man over there with his face beaten into the tiles harassed me, and Cait came to my defense.”

Hancock drums his fingers on the grip of his shotgun while he thinks. “This time, we’re all gonna walk away. But I won’t catch anybody,” he throws a significant look at Cait, then at the trio of men, “at this again. You feel me?”

“Absolutely,” Kaelyn says. “I apologize, Hancock. This won’t happen again.” Throwing a stack of caps on the counter to be snatched away by Charlie, Kaelyn tows Cait to the exit, offering her apologies to Ham on the way. Wrestling with the hotel room keys, she leads Cait into her room and kicks the door shut behind them.

Kaelyn turns to the washstand and sets to heating water, then digs through her bags for a first aid kit. Dogmeat sits on the rug, ears perked in her direction.

The mattress squeaks in fear as Cait flops on it. “Your bed’s bigger ‘n’ mine.”

Kaelyn doesn’t bother to turn around. “It needs to accommodate two people.”

The mattress wails more loudly as Cait springs to her feet, followed by the offbeat drumming of her feet on the floorboards. “So what’re you bring me here for, eh?”

Something in her tone causes Kaelyn to look up. Despite being battered and blood-splattered, Cait paces the length of the room, her fingers worrying at the creases of her elbows. Sweat coats her skin like varnish, reflecting light from the pre-war wall laps.

She holds up the bowl. “You punched a man in the face for leering at me. The least I can do is patch you up.”

“Least you could do is buy me a drink,” Cait retorts, but sits on the edge of the bed as directed. This time she stays there, even if she fidgets.

Tending her requires a deft touch and no sudden movements. Taking a seat beside Cait, Kaelyn washes the blood off her forearm and split knuckles before bandaging them. Cait remains tense through the whole ordeal, the tendons in her arm bowstring-taught, ready to loose a punch at the slightest provocation. Nate had been like this, too, when he came home after deployment. He’d tensed up at the mere thought of human contact when his instincts spent months being trained to assume touch is meant to hurt.

That Cait is even letting her do this at all means something.

“What do you want from me?” Springing to her feet, Cait crosses the room to the window. Her fists swing at her sides. “I’ve been waitin’ for you to take what you think you’re owed. Nothing’s free, so out with it.”

Kaelyn has to wonder if there’s any use in offering reassurances when they’ll only be dodged and blocked as if they’re punches. “I told you. I’m paying you back because _I_ owe _you_. Why did you even come with us if you’re expecting a knife in the back at any moment?”

“Goin’ alone in the Commonwealth is a good way to get dead.” Cait draws in a breath. “I was expectin’ to hate your guts, you know. But you’ve been damn near _nice_ to me, and I want to know why.”

It takes Kaelyn several seconds to parse her meaning. To understand Cait means that decency can’t be expected, taken for granted, but a ploy to hook someone in—well. What happened to her that she’s come to expect pain from everyone?

Kaelyn says, “Cait, no. I took you on because it was better than leaving you to rot in the Combat Zone. If you don’t want to stick around, that’s your choice. I can burn the contract, just to make it official. You’re not my servant, and I have no expectations for you to be one.”

“That. That right there.” Cait stabs a finger at her. “Why? Nobody does favors for free. Learned it the hard way and I ain’t lettin’ this debt rack up.”

Fiddling with the cloth, Kaelyn considers her options. Handwaving this apparent debt hasn’t worked. “All right, then. If you want to pay me back, you can explain where you’re coming from. Why you see every act of kindness as a debt to be repaid.”

Cait crosses her arms, her eyebrows slashing down into a scowl. “I spent three years of me life in the Combat Zone. Smelled of puke and piss, but I called it home. It was always rough, but when raiders took over the place, it only got worse. Had to put me hard-earned caps to use to keep ’em off me back. Now I’m just waitin’ for you to hand me a bill, if you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t. Because where I come from, doing the right thing doesn’t have strings attached.”

Frustration carves hard lines into Cait’s face, between her eyebrows and around her mouth. Springing to her feet, she stomps to the door. “Everyone wants something, and you can’t even do me the favor of tellin’ me the truth about what you want from me?”

Her ire is punctuated by the door slamming closed behind her.

—

G5-19’s caretaker wrings her hands and retreats from the room, her consent given. Curie bobs over to the memory lounger where G5 lies prone, her hands slack on the armrests. Her nails are short and blunt, clipped with an inelegant pragmatism. Curie peers inside the lid for a glimpse at what will be her body.

“Yes… she looks healthy, even if her weight appears to be below average. A common ailment in the Commonwealth, I have observed.”

Even knowing the parts that made G5 who she was are already gone, Kaelyn still feels a measure of grief for this stranger. “It isn’t often someone gets to see their own face in third person like this. Are you ready?”

At least they’re doing this now, after the Institute and Brotherhood no longer have the capacity to hunt synths down. At best, Curie would be a scientific curiosity as a robot downloading herself into a synth body. At worst, well, neither organization looked kindly on machines with free will.

Amari beckons Curie to her terminal, and hooks a cable into the bot’s uplink port. “Curie, terminate all non-essential operations.”

“Affirmative.”

Amari confirms the connection is stable, then with a stroke of her keyboard, she begins the transfer. As the minutes tick by, Kaelyn folds her hands over her stomach and settles in for the wait.

Without warning, Curie’s jet propulsion extinguishes and she clatters to the ground.

“Curie!” Kaelyn springs towards her, then realizes it’s the wrong direction. She turns to the memory lounger.

The hands on the armrests clench, then flutter.

Crouching beside the pod, Kaelyn says. “Just breathe. It’s an automatic function. Your body knows what to do.”

“Oh!” Her long, slender fingers twitch and then curl around the armrests. “I never knew physical contact with objects would feel like this.”

“Curie? Can you hear me? That is you, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you sound so different with these auditory receptors. Ears.”

Amari hits the release on the pod, and the lid retracts. “Open your eyes. Can you tell me your name?”

Curie obeys, her eyelashes fluttering as her pupils contract. Her eyes are a soft hazel blue. “My designation is Contagions Vulnerability Robotic Infirmary Engineer. Or Curie.”

Amari nods. “Good. Now I need to test your cognitive functions. If you’ll answer these questions…”

She runs through a number of scenarios from basic math questions to scientific theorems, practical scenarios like what she would do if someone threw a baseball bat at her head, and then tests her basic mobility by directing her to touch her fingers together. Then Amari asks her to recall a vivid memory.

“In Vault 81, Dr Burrow was the last one left in my section of the vault. He was very old, on his bed. He said to me ‘Curie, you must…’ and died before— oh.” Curie’s expression twists, seemingly of its own volition. “When I think of him, I get this tight feeling in my stomach. My chest hurts. Do I need to breathe more?”

“If you feel lightheaded, then yes. Otherwise, no.”

“Maybe you’re feeling grief for them,” Kaelyn ventures. That old stone is a permanent weight in her chest, but she isn’t certain if she wants to go into detail on its torpid effects. Not yet, at least.

Curie’s face twists with sorrow. “I do not know… this unit was not configured to feel emotions like this.”

Despite knowing Handys’ emotional packages are lines of code, Codsworth has fooled Kaelyn on multiple occasions with the depth of his emotions. Seeing this makes her wonder what the differences truly are.

“To my knowledge, nothing like this has ever been attempted before,” Amari says. “It will take time to process this new stimuli. Now, can you curl your toes?”

All eyes go to Curie’s feet, hidden as they are behind her worn sneakers.

“Yes. My… toes, yes, toes, they can move quasi-independently, yes?”

At a nod from Amari, Kaelyn helps Curie to her feet. She overbalances and clings to Kaelyn, and her expression grows tentative as she shifts her weight on her feet.

“This limb configuration feels… strange. As does needing to have both feet on the ground to move. I fear this may not be as easy as I thought.”

Dogmeat approaches the lounger to sniff at Curie, and she gasps when she touches the top of his head. “He is so soft!”

Kaelyn loops her arm through Curie’s. “It’ll take some getting used to, but your body knows what to do. Just relax, and shift your feet a little wider. You’ll have better balance that way.”

They circuit the room once, and Curie quickly picks up on the rhythm of walking. With Amari’s assessment that the operation was successful, they are free to leave. Irma graces them with a smile and a wink on the way out.

On the street, Curie’s nose wrinkles. “That… smell, yes? My new olfactory sensors appear to be more sensitive than those I was previously equipped with.” A moment later, she asks, “How do humans remember to breathe?”

“We can control our breathing, but when when we aren’t thinking about it our bodies do it automatically. Don’t worry about it, Curie.”

Curie eyes her doubtfully. “If you say so.”

Simply making it down the street to the Rexford is an achievement when Curie stops to gawk at everything with her new eyes. “It is incredible. I could never have anticipated how having two limbs touching the ground affects one’s sensory perception. I can feel the texture of the world, yet only with my eyes?”

Somehow they make it to the Rexford’s lounge.

Cait, having already made clear her opinion on the matter of robots becoming humans, looks up to deliver another scathing remark and stops. “That you, botty? For a body-snatcher, you picked well.”

Curie replies, “This body had suffered a injury that rendered its previous owner brain dead. Rather than turning off life support, Dr Amari transferred my consciousness into her. I did not pick it out.”

Cait still grumbles about the creepiness of it all, but when she watches Curie out of the corner of her eye, it’s from more than suspicion. Intrigue glints in her green gaze.

And that’s to say nothing of Curie’s first meal. It had been Nate’s idea to find something a little nicer than plain Wasteland fare, so Kaelyn passes her a chocolate bar he’d rescued for the occasion.

Curie’s eyes close as she chews, slowly, thoughtfully. “Oh! Oh my, I had not realized sustenance could taste so…”

“Not everything tastes as good as that, I’m afraid,” Kaelyn warns her, “but how do you feel about your new body?”

Curie’s eyes shine like coins in the sun, nothing like her old optics, but there’s something in the way she holds herself that feels familiar. “This new hardware will take much adjustment. But it is _magnificent_.”

For Curie’s first official act with her body, they follow Nate’s trail to the cannery. After giving her a night to settle into her body, they head out. If Curie had been delighted by her first trek out of the vault, this time she’s awed. Her visible spectrum is more limited yet more detailed, made obvious by the way she comments on the colors of the ground, the freeway, the sky. She touches everything for its texture, marvels at the breeze on her face, stands still for a good five minutes to gaze at the sky.

“In Vault 81, I wondered if I would ever see the sky,” she says. “When you led me out, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I would ever see. I still think that, but it is… changed.”

Her wide-eyed wonder alternately frustrates Cait and amuses her. “It’s just left over junk from before the war,” she grumbles, but there’s no heat to it.

Fortunately, they don’t have to venture far to find Nate and MacCready on the road. Two figures amble in the distance; Kaelyn ushers her companions off the road to inspect the strangers with her rifle scope.

She lowers the scope and breaks into a jog, Dogmeat bounding ahead to catch their attention and reassure them that it’s just her. When she gets close enough for a proper look, her step falters. Both men are bedraggled, clothes wet and torn, and both sport grim expressions.

Kaelyn gapes at the limping duo. “Are you two okay?”

Nate’s smile is too fierce, has too many teeth. “Feral ghouls in the basement. The owner was butchering them for meat. He locked us in there with ’em when we poked around too much for his liking.”

She throws her arms around his neck, and not even the rank smell of sewerage and ghoul blood can make her regret the gesture. Not quite, anyway. Nate drapes an arm around her and squeezes her waist, torn between pulling her closer and not wanting to spread the sludge to her.

MacCready sucks in a breath. Underneath the grime and slime, his face is pale. “Fu— ferals. It had to be ferals, didn’t it? I want a pay rise for that.”

Kaelyn doesn’t want to contemplate them being locked underground with a pack of ferals. “That’s awful. And the Minuteman investigator?”

Nate’s grimace said enough. “He was already dead by the time we got there.”

She briefly closes her eyes. “Sit down, both of you. I’ll get a fire going.”

Eager to prove herself in her new body, relieved to have something familiar, Curie takes on MacCready’s care, smoothing over his grumbling with her impeccable bedside manner. He doesn’t seem to recognize her as the robot that had accompanied them to Goodneighbor, and perhaps that’s for the best.

Nate cants his head in Curie’s direction, the arch of his eyebrow forming a question mark. Kaelyn nods as she ushers him to sit near the fire.

Turning his wrist over, Kaelyn peels back Nate’s torn sleeve to clean blood from the scratch marks on his forearm. Gore is a grim reality of Commonwealth living, but there’s something about seeing her husband so marred, knowing she wasn’t there when he was injured, that makes her feel faint. Nate sucks in a breath and tenses at the first touch of disinfectant, so she works as quickly and gently as she can.

“How bad was it down there?”

Ferals tend to congregate, and the true danger lies in their numbers. One ghoul? Killable. Ten? Not so easy.

“Like fish in a barrel—if those fish had claws, I mean.” Nate rubs the back of his neck then gives her another smile, sheepish this time, when she pulls down his arm to continue bandaging it. “The way behind us was sealed, so we had to keep moving through the tunnels. But obviously we found another way back up. Gave old Theo a hell of a fright when we showed up. I don’t think my feet are ever going to be dry again. Or smell of anything but sewerage. But at least it’s not bad feet smell, right?” He leans down to unlace his boots, and sighs in relief when he peels his wrinkled feet free of wet socks.

Kaelyn takes his gift of lightheartedness to keep them both calm. “Right. How are your rad levels?”

“Could be better, but any sickness hasn’t kicked in yet.” Good patient that he is, Nate holds still while she slides the radaway needle into a vein and tapes it in place.

Kaelyn wipes her hands. “Anything I’ve missed?”

“Uh, yeah. You haven’t kissed me better, yet.”

“How silly of me to forget. I’ll get right on it.” With two fingers under his chin, she tilts his head so she can more easily press her lips to his. After a day of stress and fighting, his lips are dry, with the faint tang of salt, but the taste of relief drowns it out.

Even with two mildly injured people, their group makes it back to Goodneighbor before nightfall. Nate drags Kaelyn onto their bed and they settle in an inelegant sprawl. When she traces the waistband of his pants, he presses a chaste kiss just under her ear. “I’m not up for anything more strenuous than a cuddle right now.”

So she tucks his head under her chin and lets the sound of his breathing carry her to sleep.

But Goodneighbor’s schedule is a thing of its own. Awoken by distant shouting, Kaelyn rolls to her feet to draw back the mildew-laden curtains. The Neighborhood Watch are already on the scene, breaking up the brawl in progress while a number of onlookers cheer and bet and gawk.

Kaelyn checks the time. 4:12am. With a sigh, she looks to the bed. Nate turns his head; one eye is already open.

She startles, and he eases up onto his elbows. “Sorry, honey.”

She waves him off, but he pads across the room to where she stands vigil by the window.

“Any danger?”

She peeks around the curtain again. “Local louts, I think. Neighborhood Watch has it under control.”

Nate’s hand closes over hers, and he bends his head to kiss the side of her neck. “Good. Since we’re both awake now, I have a few ideas on what we can do to pass the time…”

She chuckles, low and throaty. “Why don’t you tell me? Better yet, why don’t you show me?”

Kaelyn twists to kiss Nate, pushing him back, her fingers working at the buttons on his shirt. When the back of his legs bump the edge of the bed, she insists he lie back. Kaelyn follows him down to straddle his hips and reaches for the buttons on her own shirt. Nate’s fingers dig into her waist, more to keep a hold of himself than to keep a hold of her, and for his sake Kaelyn wishes the emerging view is a little better than her simple yellowed and stained bra.

From his expression, however, he doesn’t mind.

Kaelyn nips at Nate’s fingers as he tries to touch her cheek, catching his wrist to draw a finger into her mouth. Without breaking eye contact, she sweeps her tongue along the underside of his finger. Nate’s hips twitch beneath her.

“Why— why didn’t we take all our clothes off first?” he gasps.

“Because this is its own kind of fun,” she purrs.

Fun, but not _enough_. Kaelyn rocks her hips against him, slow and firm, maintaining eye contact is its own brand of intimacy, refining the heat between them to a pure blue flame. Nate’s gaze is the only thing in the world that matters. When he’s close, she relents and rolls of off him. Nate makes a disappointed noise in his throat, then glares at her when she reminds him, “You wanted us to take our clothes off, remember?”

He gets his revenge when they’re both bare, pinning her to the mattress and hiking her legs apart with a knee.

Kaelyn runs her tongue over that sensitive spot beneath his jaw then blows on it gently, drawing a delicious shiver from Nate. His hand skims down her side and over her hip to hitch her knee around his waist, and she arches up against him.

Afterward, Kaelyn presses against Nate’s back. Her body feels thick and indolent. Sweeping auburn hair away from his neck, she presses a kiss to his nape. His skin is sweaty, and Kaelyn soon rolls away so they can cool down.

Nate exhales, deep and uneven, and twists enough to look at her. “You know that merc, MacCready? He has a son, too. It reminded me of…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “You know what? ’S nothing.”

Not the pillow talk she’d been expecting. Kaelyn’s own voice is uneven, from conflicting sources, her tired satisfaction pierced by encroaching pain. “If you say so.”

“Ah, dammit.” Not the usual response to such a declaration, but he then says, “About that synth Shaun…”

Kaelyn tenses. “What about him?”

“Why did you send him away? I’ve seen enough synths to know they’re people. And maybe it’s a little—and by a little I mean a lot— weird, but he’s still our son.”

Her chest constricts. “He’s a boy, not a replacement goldfish. Our son is gone. Nothing will bring Shaun back.” It takes her a few moments before she can continue. “There are no do-overs.”

“Okay, now I know that one’s bullshit. Just look at me, honey.” He drags her hand to his chest, grazing the spot where Kellogg shot him. The scar tissue is rough under her fingertips. “Second chances _do_ roll around, and you know it.”

That’s a particular truth she isn’t keen to acknowledge right now.

Huffing a sigh, Kaelyn asks, “Why has this gotten to you? Why bring it up now?”

“Because that kid’s all I have left of my son. Knowing he’s out there somewhere, in this damn wasteland, where we can’t look after him… look, it doesn’t matter if he’s not the original Shaun. He’s a part of you and a part of me.”

Unable to withstand the weight of his yearning, of the beseeching hand cast like a lifeline in her direction, hoping she’ll accept to save them both from drowning, Kaelyn instead stands and dresses.

He calls after her, “Shaun asked you to look after him.”

She stops on the threshold. “He asked a lot of things of me that I couldn’t give him, or almost broke me to give him.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!
> 
> **CW for drug references.**

Kaelyn wakes to something pounding on the door. Nate shifts, his hand briefly tightening on her waist, while Dogmeat startles awake. It takes her a few seconds for the room to resolve. The Castle.

The knocking ratchets up. Trading a look, Kaelyn and Nate each grab a sidearm, then pad to the door.

Curie almost staggers forward when Nate opens the door mid-knock. “Madame! Monsieur!”

“Curie?” Nate asks. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Where’s the fire?”

“Fire? No, no fire. Do not be alarmed. I needed to tell you both something important!”

Kaelyn and Nate trade looks through puffy, half-lidded eyes.

At Kaelyn’s grunt, Curie begins, “You know of my work in Vault 81. I succeeded in completing my colleagues’ work, but all that research will be for naught if it remains theoretical. I must find a way to synthesize my broad-spectrum cure. It could work wonders on the Commonwealth, perhaps beyond. Vault 81 has all the research and equipment I require, but lacks the necessary materials to create another batch of the cure.”

“It would,” Kaelyn says. “But it’s 3a.m., Curie. Can’t this wait until morning?”

Curie blinks, thrown off track. Then she glances around, as if realizing it’s night for the first time. “Oh. My apologies. I will return at a more appropriate hour.”

When the door shuts, Nate thunks his head on the timber. His voice is thick, muted. “It’d be more exciting if I was awake.”

Kaelyn takes his hand and between the two of them, they stumble back to bed.

At a more humane hour, they reconvene and seek out Preston to discuss what Curie’s proposal means for the Minutemen. Once word spreads, Curie’s lab will be a target, plus they need to lay the groundwork for distribution. Apparently there’s historical precedent in the Capital Wasteland of critical resources being freely shared, so that’s something. It goes on the agenda for the next Accords meeting, though Kaelyn doesn’t mind acting alone now to lay the groundwork. Having results and a plan already in place will only help their case.

With the plan laid out, Kaelyn and Nate accompany Curie on her quest. Since Cait is going stir crazy, she offers to come with on the expectation that there’ll be trouble. Their first stop is easy: Diamond City’s Science! Center. It’s the simplest place to start, though Kaelyn doubts it or Mega Surgery will have the needed pharmaceuticals in stock.

What starts off as a simple introduction between Curie and Duff somehow tumbles sideways into a discussion on the medical viability of the various mutuated flora of the Commonwealth that even lures Professor Scara out of her usual grump, respecting the company of an intellectual peer.

Nate murmurs to Kaelyn, “I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I’m glad Curie’s happy.”

With Curie occupied, Kaelyn decides to check out the rumor of a break-in at Diamond City Radio while Cait abandons them for the bar. She knocks on the trailer and steps in. “Hey, Travis. I heard there was a break-in here?”

He nods, and for a half-second there’s a brief flash of the nervousness that once dominated his personality. “When I was at the Dugout for dinner. They didn’t take anything that I noticed, but knocked everything off the desk and left the door open. Don’t know who did it, but it might have just been a prank. I was going to mention it to Nick, but he’s out on an investigation.”

Time for Kaelyn to put on her detective fedora. “You mind if I look around?”

“Sure.”

Kaelyn searches the desk and tries to think of what Valentine would say. If the desk had been turned over, that suggests someone was searching for something. She doesn’t have Valentine’s experience or his knack for crime scene observations, but he hasn’t trained a fool. She rifles through the papers, the toolkit and scattered pieces of broken radio parts, but finds nothing of interest. She searches the nearby crate of salvaged machine pieces, just in case.

Finding nothing, she scans the room at large—and her attention lands on the transmitter. Kaelyn reaches out to touch the panel, even though her eyes aren’t lying.

“Something the matter?” Nate rests a hand on the small of her back.

“The modifications are missing,” she breathes.

“Why wouldn’t Travis notice something like that?”

Kaelyn draws in a breath. “Because he didn’t install them. I did, on the Institute’s behalf. When the Institute got their reactor upgraded, they were going to broadcast a message to the Commonwealth. A warning for nobody to meddle in their affairs. Shaun had me upgrade Travis’s equipment so when the time came, the signal would be strong enough to reach all corners of the Commonwealth. And now those pieces are missing.”

Nate arches an eyebrow. “Let me guess: the Institute’s the only one who knew about this?”

She lets out a heavy breath. “Most likely. If Travis didn’t even notice… what are they doing? Why would they need an amplifier?”

Nate’s gaze is unusually dark when he glances sideways at her. “Whatever it is, I have a bad feeling about this.”

They end up delaying their continued trip for a day, mostly because Curie is caught up in trading notes with her fellows in the Science! Center, but also so Kaelyn can make some inquiries around town. No one’s heard anything or seen anything suspicious, not even Piper.

With no further leads, they collect Cait from the Dugout and move on to Vault 81 to request access to the research wing. Overseer McNamara’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline when she hears Curie speak for the first time, recognizing her gentle French cadence at once.

“We’ve been carefully exploring the place. Calvin placed poisoned bait for the mole rats, but we’re not certain we got them all. After what happened to Austin, I don’t want to take any risks. This isn’t worth people’s lives.”

After dinner, Kaelyn, Nate and Curie head to McNamara’s office to formally request Vault 81 permit Curie to establish her lab here and safeguard the cure, while allowing them to take her research and samples to the surface. In return, Vault 81 gets free access to Curie’s research.

Dr Forsythe and Rachel are very interested in Curie’s data, so they drag most of her equipment to the clinic to set up a lab there.

“This is likely the safest place for my research,” Curie says, “even if I have seen enough of the vault for a lifetime. But I still need materials to recreate my cure.”

Their next target is Kendall Hospital. When they’re a few blocks away, Kaelyn leads the group up a parking garage so she can watch the place through the scope of her sniper rifle. To nobody’s surprise, the hospital is occupied—although they have to explain to Curie that it isn’t under the control of doctors, but raiders.

Kaelyn arranges for a group of Minutemen volunteers to help them clear the place out and help lug any half-working equipment and supplies back to Vault 81. To Curie’s disappointment, the hospital’s pharmaceutical stock has since been looted or spoiled.

Cait shakes her head. “Hospitals’ve always been a juicy place to hole up. Doubt you’ll find anythin’ in the others besides more raiders.”

“You know, I might know of one other place that could have what you’re after,” Nate muses. “Med-Tek Research.”

“Name sounds promising,” Kaelyn agrees. “How’d you hear about it?”

“MacCready mentioned it. I’m under the impression he’s planning on going in himself, once he scrapes together enough caps to prepare.”

“We should invite him to accompany us, then,” Curie says. “There is safety in numbers, after all.”

After delivering Curie's new lab equipment to Vault 81, they make their way to Goodneighbor to make their offer to MacCready. They’ve just settled down in their makeshift camping ground—a house with no roof—when gunfire punctures a dozen holes in the night.

Snapping up their weapons, they crouch by doors and windows. Except the gunfire isn’t directed at them.

“We must help whoever is in danger!” Curie hisses.

Kaelyn and Nate trade glances. His expression is concerned, hers grim.

Before either of them can answer, Cait surges onto the street. “Good time for a fight!”

Biting back a curse, Kaelyn checks Deliverer. Nate overtakes her to cover Cait—and yanks her behind an overturned truck when they find the fight. Kaelyn and Curie follow at a distance, guns pointed low so they don’t shoot Nate or Cait in the back.

In a half-empty scrap yard, three scavvers are dead while a squad of first and second gen synths fan out around the lot.

Peering around the truck, Nate holds up four fingers. He points each of them to target one of the synths.

The fight doesn’t take long. Kaelyn knows to hit the coolant pump in the chest module, followed by a shot to the processor in its metal skull. Their task is made easier by the synths’ outdated programming and poor upkeep.

“Everyone okay?” Nate calls.

Cait grunts and shakes herself out. “Prettier than this lot with me shotgun emptied into them.”

“No, but you’re hurt.” Kaelyn tosses a clean rag to Cait, and she presses it to the laser burn on her bicep.

Nate checks Kaelyn over for injuries, his hands quick and gentle as they run down her arms, and if they linger for a moment longer at her waist than medically necessary, Kaelyn doesn’t mind. They share a quick kiss for reassurance, then search the area under the eerie green incandescence of their pip-boys’ lights.

“Nothin’ here but junk.” Cait gives one of the synths a boot in the chassis for good measure. “Guess these synths wanted a little sport.”

Kaelyn shakes her head, scanning the junkyard again. “They’re not programmed for that. I’d say they were recovering anything of use, and these scavvers were in the way.”

With nothing more to be gained, they retreat back to the house. When Kaelyn takes her turn on watch, she knows all three of them are awake but keeps her attention on the road visible through the broken wall. Moonlight coats the land with a silver veneer to smooth away its drab barren tones. Soon enough, Nate’s breathing changes to the rhythm of sleep, Curie is gently snoring, and Cait gives it an extra ten minutes before unzipping her sleeping bag to plop down beside Kaelyn.

Cait’s gaze falls on Curie. “Wasn’t expectin’ her to sleep like a human. Or snore like one.”

“Why, Cait,” Kaelyn teases, “I wasn’t expecting you to watch her sleep.”

Cait scuffs her boots on the ground, a lock of hair falling over her face. She grumbles something unflattering under her breath.

Kaelyn raises an eyebrow.

“She’s—” Cait catches herself. “She ain’t human. Not really.”

“I think she’s more human than a lot of people in the Wasteland.”

“Oh yeah?” Cait frowns, but it lacks her usual fierceness. “How do you figure?”

“She has a sense of common decency.”

Cait bares her teeth. “She’s a robot playin’ at human.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think there’s anything about being a natural-born human that puts us above any other life. The Wasteland proves that.”

“You don’t think she’s gonna go nuts and kill us all?”

Kaelyn scoffs. “I think out of everyone here, she’s the least likely.”

Cait is silent for a few minutes. The thoughtful frown is back. “But what kind of robot wants to… blend in?”

“It’s not about blending in. It’s about experiencing life.”

“If that’s what she’s after…” Cait pauses. Something flickers across her face, too fast to catch. “Doncha reckon you shoulda stopped her? Nothin’ to experience but pain out here.”

At that, Kaelyn pauses, too. “This was her decision to make.”

“If she’s a robot turned synth, what kind of emotions does she have?”

Kaelyn opens her mouth. Closes it again. “Don't you think these questions are better directed at her?”

“Maybe. But you, you’re…” Cait also looks out the apocalypse-made window. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been stickin’ by me. Watchin’ me back and makin’ sure I don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Kaelyn quips.

“Friends…” Cait rolls the word around her mouth the way she might a square of chocolate, unfamiliar with its old-world taste. “I have a feelin’ that word means different things to you and me. Think I like your definition better. So yeah, I appreciate havin’ a friend to watch me back.”

Kaelyn’s face softens. “I appreciate your trust, Cait.”

Cait scuffs her feet on the ground, ducks her head, but can’t contain her smile. “Well, you’re the first to earn it.”

—

A breeze blows along the street, and Dogmeat stops dead in the road. The morning air is warm, baked over the faded Back Bay suburb. He raises his muzzle and sniffs the air, and his hackles rise. He growls just as Kaelyn draws level with him, and she signals for the others to halt.

She raises her rifle and peers down the scope.

Four super mutants lumber down the road with a mutant hound, in a twisted reflection of her own group.

Kaelyn lowers her rifle. “There's a small band of super mutants. We need to get off the road.”

“What? You’re not afraid of a few greenskins, are ya?” Cait taunts, unslinging her shotgun. “We can take ’em!”

Kaelyn’s about to reply when Curie says, “I would much rather avoid conflict wherever possible, Madame Cait. It would be foolish to fight an enemy we could otherwise avoid.”

Cait blinks at the title, then her eyes harden as they search Curie’s face for any sign of mockery.

“What about through there?” Nate asks. He points to where the road branches off around the ruins of the Dartmouth building. A wall of sheet metal runs below the overpass ramp, broken by a single open doorway.

Walls mean humans, but Kaelyn knows where she’d rather take her chances. They shuffle into the alley beside Dartmouth, blocked from the mutants’ view.

A glint on the overpass catches Kaelyn's eye and she throws herself at Nate—

The bullet meant for her husband bites into the asphalt instead.

“Bastards!”

Kaelyn springs to her feet, but Cait is already racing towards the doorway, shotgun ready.

Nate rises as well, firing a volley of lasers that drive the sniper back behind the steel crash barriers. “Go!”

Curie takes off after Cait with Kaelyn and Dogmeat close behind. They rush to safety, Nate bringing up the rear. Kaelyn waits at the doorway, her heart frozen until he pushes her through. His hand briefly squeezes her arm before they’re both running for cover.

Directly ahead of them lies an open courtyard. Cait has forsaken all cover to get up close and personal with the raiders who own this territory. Curie tries to provide covering fire from behind a low stone wall, while Cait bares her teeth in a snarl and strikes a raider down with the stock of her shotgun. As the man stumbles back, Dogmeat surges into the fray and takes him down with a snap of his jaws.

Nate opens with a burst of suppressing fire that scatters the three remaining raiders, buying Cait a moment to reload her shotgun while Dogmeat watches her flanks. Kaelyn unslings her musket and winds the crank.

One of the raiders breaks from their cover, brandishing a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Only the slide on the pistol is locked back. Before Cait can turn her shotgun, or Dogmeat can launch himself at her, the raider throws her pistol at Cait’s head—only to be disintegrated as Kaelyn’s shot hits her square in the chest.

Cait ducks to avoid the pistol just as there’s another crack of sniper fire. The bullet sparks on the concrete as Cait turns, her lips curled in a snarl. She fires up at the sniper, turning her back on the remaining raiders below.

Dogmeat barks a warning when the raiders emerge, one with a razor wire baseball bat and the other wielding a machete.

The sniper fires again as Cait turns, the bullet grazing her leg. “ _Shite!_ ” Her hands shake and she fumbles with the cartridges. The raiders close in on her, swinging their weapons.

“Madame Cait!” Curie breaks from cover, firing at the raiders as she runs towards Cait. Her shots are poorly aimed, but she hits the baseball bat raider in the shoulder.

As the man reels back, his bat clattering to the ground, the second raider charges towards Curie, who’s out of ammo.

Curie’s eyes widen as the rusted blade slashes through the air towards her and she recoils—only for the twin barrels of Cait’s shotgun to deflect the blow. Cait snarls and as she shoves the raider back, Nate and Kaelyn abandon their cover to enter the fray.

Kaelyn turns her musket to the overpass, firing a scarlet burst towards the glinting scope she can see overhead, driving the sniper back. Nate fires two shots into the unarmed raider as Dogmeat lunges, clamping his jaws around the wrist of the man wielding the machete.

Cait cocks her shotgun and fires.

“We need to move!” Nate shouts, gesturing back to the shadows below the overpass as Kaelyn fires again.

Curie runs ahead but Cait hesitates, trembling as she glares at the overpass with blazing eyes and a curled lip.

“Cait! Go!” Kaelyn calls.

Cait finally moves, running to where Curie is waiting anxiously in the shadows of the underpass.

Nate whistles for Dogmeat as he steps up beside Kaelyn, watching her flanks as she watches for the sniper. “Let’s go.”

Together they move from the sniper’s line of sight and into the safety of the underpass. In the sudden quiet, soft swearing filters through the holes in the road above their heads. Footsteps pelt along overpass, away from them. Kaelyn trades a glance with Nate. No one is willing to step out of the shadow, just in case.

Cait sways on her feet, digging her heels into the ground. She snaps around at Kaelyn’s approach, shotgun half-raised.

Kaelyn freezes.

Recognition flickers in Cait’s eyes. She lowers her gun.

“Cait, are you okay?”

“Fi—” she doubles over, coughing, and when she draws her fist away from her mouth its speckled with blood and saliva. She turns her hand this way and that, mesmerized by the way light shines off the red. “That’s not good.”

Cait sways dangerously, and Kaelyn rushes the distance between them to latch on before she falls. Damn, but she is heavy, her meaty arm weighted with lead as it drapes around her neck.

Curie is by their side in a heartbeat, searching Cait for injuries. “Do you feel dizzy? Any sharp pains?”

“’M fine, little bird.”

Nate arrives by Cait’s side to wrap her free arm around his shoulders, easing the burden. “Come on. Let’s get her some place safe.”

With Nate on one side and Kaelyn on the other, they half-support, half-drag her to an apartment. Nate supports Cait while Kaelyn sets up her sleeping bag, shaking off Cait’s weak assurances that she’ll be fine, and lowers her onto it. Curie stays by her side the entire time, monitoring her pulse.

Right now, Curie doesn’t have many treatment options beyond administering stimpaks, so that’s what she does, and ticks off the minutes until its effects should kick in. Twenty minutes later, Cait is still feverish and sweating, even if her fingers are able to loosen from their white-knuckled grip on the sleeping bag. Even Nate’s chest wound, as easily fatal as it could’ve been, had improved somewhat with a stimpak. Kaelyn glances at her husband now, watching Curie fuss over Cait, and his grim expression is all the confirmation she needs.

Something is wrong with Cait.

Cait clears her throat. “Thought… mebbe this would be the time to make it stick. Quittin’.”

Nate’s shoulders slump. “That’s admirable of you, Cait. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

Cait grunts, rolls on her side.

“She needs treatment,” Curie says firmly. “Where is the nearest medical facility? Vault 81 has a treatment program, but it is over a day’s walk.”

Cait snorts. “Forget that.”

Nate frowns. “DC’s half a day, but withdrawal doesn’t just go away. If it’s hit the point Cait can’t function without it, then the only thing that’ll help right now is giving her another dose.”

Curie replies, “That is merely a band-aid. One that carries immediate risks, not to mention the continued long-term damage the chem is causing.”

“I know, but you can’t go cold turkey after long dependency.”

“Are you two serious?” Kaelyn demands.

The grim set of his mouth is all the answer she needs. “Wish I wasn’t. But we don’t have many options out here.”

“So it’s killin’ me, but right now it’ll save me life?” When Cait smiles, there’s red between her teeth. “Ironic, that is.”

Curie administers the dose herself, ignoring Cait’s protests, her hands steadier than Cait’s. Even if Cait snorts when she disinfects the crook of her elbow, she takes all the care she would if she were injecting medicine instead of poison.

“There we are.” Curie presses a tiny square of gauze to the injection site. “If you feel any adverse effects, tell me at once.”

After Cait has finally given in to a restless sleep, Kaelyn catches Nate in the other room by the fire. Curie remains glued to Cait’s side, brushing her hair out of her face to check her temperature.

Plopping down beside him, she’s sandwiched between his body heat and the heat of the fire. “Nate? Have you seen anything like this before?”

He pokes the fire with a stick until the end chars and snaps. “Not my usual area of expertise, but… if she’s this sick, it’s probably beyond addictol.”

“So what do we do?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Nate takes in the stars above them. “If Curie can’t pull out a miracle cure… there have to be specialist doctors around here that can help. She isn’t the only one who’s ever struggled with this.”

“Thought you didn’t like me, pretty boy?”

They both glance around to see Cait sitting up in the other room, gripping the edge of her sleeping bag in a white-knuckled grip.

Curie tuts. “You should be resting, madame.”

Nate says, “I’ve had bad experiences with psycho in the past. That doesn’t mean I’m not gonna help you. Especially not when you’re trying to get clean.”

Cait doesn’t know what to do with that information, judging by her expression. Arms crossed over her chest, she hunches her shoulders in the expectation of a blow that won’t come. A ‘ha, I can’t believe you fell for that’. When it comes to Cait, words pack more punch than fists. “You think I inject myself with all that shite and drink meself drunk because I’m a ‘tough Irish gal’? I do it so I can forget me past and move on with me miserable life.” She peeks up under her lashes, just a flash of green in Kaelyn’s direction, then Curie’s.

“I’m sorry for whatever has caused you harm,” Curie says, “but chem use can cause even more damage.”

As far as coping mechanisms go, it’s neither the healthiest or rarest. And Kaelyn knows something of that desire to forget. “Whatever drove you to that, I’m sorry. But you want to clean yourself up now, right?”

Her pragmatism befuddles Cait for a long moment, then she shakes her head with a snort. “Guess there’s no shoving that cat back into the bag, eh? I’ve made a mess of this.”

Curie says firmly, “That means we can find a way to treat this.”

Her gaze falls on Kaelyn’s pip-boy, latched around her wrist as always. “Which vault are you from, anyway?”

Puzzled, but seeing no reason to withhold an answer, Kaelyn says, “111.”

She grunts softly. “You helped a robot become human, so what the hell. Not like I have anythin’ left to lose. Ever heard of Vault 95?”

Kaelyn trades a glance with Nate before answering. “Can’t say that I have. What’s your interest in it?”

Curie adds, “I have not heard of this Vault 95, either. Does it have a better treatment program than Vault 81?”

Cait stares past them to the floor. “At this rate I’m going to wind up dead. I’ve been using psycho since I left home, and I can’t stop. Been to doctors, tried addictol, gone cold turkey. You saw how well that turned out.”

Kaelyn asks, “So where does Vault 95 come into this?”

“I’m gettin’ to it. Heard a rumor that Vault-Tec stuck a bunch of junkies into 95 for prodding. But whatever else they did, they had some kind of method to clean up the lowlifes who went in. Also heard a rumor Gunners took up shop in the place.”

Ah. Gunners. This is going to be fun.

Nate asks, “Do you know where Vault 95 is?”

Red flashes as Cait shakes her head. “Only that it’s in the southwest Commonwealth.”

There’s no deliberation, no decision. Kaelyn says, “Then we’ll find it.”

Cait blinks, but before the shock can wear off, Curie touches her arm. “Worry not, madame. We’ll find this treatment for you.”

A heartbeat passes, then her face hardens and she yanks her arm back. “What’s this _we_ business?”

Curie blinks at the sudden hostility, her shoulders curling inward. “I don’t understand—”

“You want to play in your lab with your samples. So you can go do that.”

Kaelyn’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline. “Cait, what’s this?”

“What’s it look like? She’s not coming with us.” Cait says it with such finality there’s no arguing, any more than one can argue with a boulder set in mud.

Firelight dances along Curie’s jaw, throws shadow over her her eyes. “If you insist, madame.” Her words are clipped. “Please excuse me. I must take first watch tonight.” Rising to her feet, she all but runs out of the room.

—

Dropping off Curie at Vault 81 is a silent, somber affair. She lifts her chin and descends into the cave with only one final glance over her shoulder. Cait doesn’t watch, standing with her shoulders hunched and fists shoved in her pockets.

“Let’s just go,” she mutters.

The road north is quiet, thankfully. At least until Kaelyn decides to probe at this strange decision. “You don’t trust Curie?”

Cait grits her teeth, looking ahead. “’S hard enough opening up to you. And someone like her, she’s too good for this.”

Having expected a synth-related protest, Kaelyn takes a moment to consider. “She’s a doctor. Helping sick people is her job.”

“People who deserve it.”

There’s more in that statement than can be unpacked in one conversation. Kaelyn trades a look with Nate. He asks, gently, teasingly, “So what does that make us?”

Cait scuffs her boots along the ground. “The only people I might be able to rely on.”

Codsworth is beyond pleased to have his family back at Sanctuary Hills, even if they only stay a day to prepare. Cait paces the boundaries of the old neighborhood with a restless spirit, ignoring Kaelyn’s warnings that if she faints at the edge of the woods no one may know. To remedy this, Kaelyn sends Dogmeat after her to keep her company, no matter her grumbles about the ‘mutt’.

Gunners are tenacious foes, so they take precautions. Nate operates a suit of power armor, carrying the old minigun Kaelyn ripped off a vertibird a long time ago. In addition to her usual loadout, she pulls her Railway Rifle out of storage for the occasion. When they set out, Cait lopes ahead until the second day, when a lingering exhaustion forces her to slow from her frenetic pace.

Nate divides the area into a grid that they search methodically, occasionally ducking for cover when a radstorm blows in from the Glowing Sea. More than once, Nate’s head turns to survey the roiling green that beckons and boils on the western horizon, pulling the silhouettes of bomb-made mountains into sharp relief.

The land itself watches them. Kaelyn turns often, neck prickling, to see nothing more than slanted trees and house foundations sticking out of the mud.

They stop for a short lunch in a clearing, surrounded by black-boned trees. Sound buzzes through the trees, accompanied by a flash of color. A woman’s voice strikes at Kaelyn’s instincts, and she gallops to the fight before her mind catches up.

Stingwings from a nearby pond are attacking a pale figure, who’s firing but missing.

“Drop!”

The stranger does. Kaelyn and Nate open fire on the stingwings, shredding them before they can dive down to their prey. Cait wisely refrains from firing her shotgun.

“Oh my.” The stranger pokes their head up from the grass and—

Kaelyn stops. “Curie?”

“Madame,” she says, flicking her hair out of her eyes.

“Out for a stroll?” Nate asks with a cocked eyebrow.

“Do not tease me so, monsieur. You know this is too far for a walk in the woods.”

“So you followed us.” Cait’s jaw clenches. “After everything?”

Curie lifts her chin. “I did. It is irresponsible of me to allow harm to come to a patient in my care.”

Cait doesn’t know how to respond to that, shotgun barely held in her slack fingers.

“Gotta admire that kind of dedication,” Nate says. “And it’s not like we can just turn this car around and go home.”

“But—” Cait breaks off, eyes flashing. “Fine, little bird. You want in, you’re in. But don’t slow me down. I don’t have all day.”

“Of course, madame.” Curie nods stiffly. “Shall we keep moving?”

Four days later, Kaelyn sights a billboard atop a distant hill and peers down her sniper rifle’s scope. The sign is more faded and mottled than most, from sun and acid rain, but the Vault Boy remains distinguishable. “I’d say that’s the place. Wait here while I go ahead to scout. These are Gunners we’re dealing with; they’ll be better organized than raiders.”

Nate’s agreement is drawn, if reluctantly, from a veteran’s pragmatism. Curie accepts without a fuss. Cait just warns her to hurry up.

Kaelyn crouches down to run her hand along Dogmeat’s neck. “We have to be quiet, okay, boy?”

He whuffs and licks her cheek, and then they’re off. Kaelyn takes a wide arc, staying behind the cover of the hill, and climbs on her elbows and knees to find a decent perch.

At the front of the vault, army barricades are painted in the Gunners’ grinning skull, offering both protection and warning. The bold proclamation dares any fool to shake them out of their fortified position. The prefabs and vehicles in the construction yard have been repositioned to offer crude cover to the defenders, turned into a maze for any incoming enemies to navigate. Kaelyn maps several possible paths through the yard and commits them to memory.

For the next hour, she watches the door guards pace the confines of their post, sticking to the boardwalks they’ve built around the vault entrance. A catwalk grafted into the rock above the tunnel offers an excellent perch for sharpshooters to control the construction yard. At a commotion near an overturned truck just down the road, two Gunners investigate on profanity-laced orders from the man who must be the squad leader. It ends in a quick blast of gunfire as they kill the ghoulified dogs that had been nosing for scraps.

By the time Kaelyn eases down the hill and returns, the guard rotation has changed. Again, the squad leader is easily picked from her superior armor and bad attitude. Kaelyn makes her way back to the others on light feet.

Cait and Nate are in the middle of splitting a box of Fancy Lads. Nate hands Kaelyn one of his cakes, licking frosting off his fingers. “Report?”

Kaelyn clears a space in the dirt to draw a crude map to illustrate the points she makes. “There are seven guards at any given time in a well-fortified position. At least two are sharpshooters, positioned above the tunnel here. They’ve built a maze of sorts from trucks and prefabs to funnel any would-be invaders into a kill zone. But it does offer cover.”

Cait checks her shotgun is loaded. “Then what are we waitin’ for? Let’s get ’em!”

Kaelyn holds up a hand. “We’ve got one shot at this. There are three of us and at least fourteen of them. Probably more. Some planning wouldn’t go astray.”

“Agreed,” Nate says, and Cait subsides with a scowl.

“I can get off one shot, maybe two or three, before they work out where I am. If I can take out the sharpshooters, that’ll turn the odds.”

Nate nods slowly. “What if we wait until nightfall? If you can find out how long the guard shifts are, we can strike after the change and charge in while the rest are sleeping.”

“I saw floodlights out the front, but night would still give me better cover.” Kaelyn considers the suit of armor, slumped behind Nate’s shoulder, and her fingers pause their drumming. “If you could climb to the top of the hill, you could jump straight down into the middle of them. Curie, you and Dogmeat stay in the cover of the cars down the road. Only give up your position if you’re in danger or have a perfect shot.”

“And what am I?” Cait snaps. “Chopped liver?”

“Once Nate drops in, you charge through the maze while they’re distracted to back him up. I’ll follow once my position is compromised. Agreed?”

Cait folds her arms across her chest and leans her weight back. “Can’t wait.”

Kaelyn creeps to a new position to observe the guards, noting the times they change rotation in her pip-boy, learning they operate on three hour shifts. Once she has all she needs, dusk is filtering through the green clouds perpetually piled to the southwest. Kaelyn slinks back to their camp to wait.

At night, the faint incandescence of the Glowing Sea strengthens; this close, the glow spreads to infect the air with a poisonous green light. They all check their weapons one last time under the light of Nate’s pip-boy, his fingers shielding the light from straying beyond the boundaries of their camp.

At 10:29pm, Kaelyn nods. Nate hops into his power armor, the freshly-oiled mechanics scarcely creaking. As he lumbers off with all the stealth he can muster, Kaelyn leads Cait to the hill she’s been using as a perch.

Handing her rifle to Cait, she whispers, “get a good look at the battlefield.”

Cait nods and hands the gun back. Kaelyn gives instructions on how to pass through the maze, then Cait skids down the hill to take position at the base.

Easing onto her stomach, Kaelyn sets up and waits.

To say power armor isn’t designed for stealth operations is an understatement. Even if she can’t hear anything from her spot, Kaelyn watches the guards on duty grow suspicious and look around. At the crest of the hill, a bulky figure is backlit by the Glowing Sea.

It’s time.

Kaelyn lowers her scope to the catwalk above the tunnel and waits for the Gunners to relax, now that Nate’s stopped moving. She picks the rightmost sharpshooter and settles the crosshairs on his chest, easing her finger onto the trigger.

Her sniper rifle roars in the night. Her target slumps.

Distant shouts pierce the distance between them. The Gunners are alert now, searching for the source. She only has seconds. Sighting the second sharpshooter, Kaelyn takes a half-second to aim and fires just as he’s turning.

She rolls away as gunfire rips holes in the night, scattering shots across the hill designed to probe at the unknown enemy.

And then the shouts gets louder and a rattling boom shatters any remnants of nighttime peace. Kaelyn crawls to her backup position, heart in her throat, and takes a half-second to watch the flow of the battle through her scope.

Like a rock thrown into a creek, the expected turns of the fight shifts with Nate’s landing. The Gunners are disoriented, but recover quickly under the squad leader’s barking. In close quarters, Nate’s minigun doesn’t do so well, especially not when they’re flanking him.

With a snarl of her own, Cait charges into the maze.

Kaelyn has to target the Gunner furtherest away from Nate, lest she hit her husband by accident. Even if it grates on her nerves to ignore the two within arm’s reach of him, trying circle around to shoot the fusion core. Her target ducks behind cover just as she fires, and he lives to fight another minute.

Sliding down the slope, Kaelyn swaps her sniper rifle for her Railway Rifle and charges after Cait. At the first intersection she turns left, spurred by the roar of Cait’s shotgun and the pinging of bullets striking power armor.

She catches up to Cait just in time to yank her back from the tell-tale light of a land mine.

“Look out!” Kaelyn drags Cait behind a prefab at the warning beep.

The frag blast rattles the prefab. A wave of heat sizzles the night’s damp. At least the prefab walls protect them from shrapnel.

Cait waits all of two seconds before rolling to her feet. “Thanks, love. Now let’s back up your man!”

“This way!” Kaelyn rushes past Cait, rounding the lime green Corvega to take a right.

The barricades open up to the tunnel entrance. Nate stands in the center of the ramp, one Gunner caught in his mechanical grip. Cait’s shotgun barks, and a Gunner goes down with a spray of buckshot pellets in his back. That leaves only the squad leader, who’s retreated behind a barricade.

Recognizing she’s cornered, the squad leader snarls and pulls the pin on the grenade she holds.

Nate dives for the grenade and tosses it into the night, then tosses the Gunner after it. Kaelyn and Cait drop the ground just before the explosion rends the night.

With ringing ears, Kaelyn blinks away afterimages as scrambles to her feet. “Nate! Are you okay?”

His power armor is scratched and dented from stray shrapnel, but nothing vital has been pierced. “Suit reads no major damage.”

Kaelyn briefly rests her head on Nate’s armored arm. The adrenaline rush leaves her to the tender mercy of a post-battle fugue, but she shakes it off as best she can. This battle is hardly over. She signals with her pip-boy that it’s safe for Curie.

As she and Dogmeat approach, Cait loots the nearest bodies, weaseling her boot under the squad leader’s shoulder to roll her over. “What gun do you have? That was impressive.”

“Over here,” Nate calls. “Found the door controls.”

Not only are vaults atom bomb-proof, but they’re also sound-proof—until the door groans open. Kaelyn removes the adapter plug from the console and hefts her Railway Rifle more comfortably in her arms. After so long without using it, its weight is blocky and unfamiliar.

Cait draws in a breath, hefts her shotgun, and they descend into Vault 95.

What the plan never considered is Nate’s sudden ferocity. He tails Cait, sweeping into the disorientation to prey on the Gunners’ confusion with deadly accuracy. A moment, a bullet, is all it takes.

They sweep the area for remaining hostiles and find several half-asleep Gunners scrambling for their combat armor. In the tight corridors, Nate takes the lead to act as a steel shield. It’s almost too easy after that as long as they stay in the corridors.

When the explosive sounds of combat give way to the dripping of water and blood, they explore.

Vault 95, in the tradition of vaults everywhere, has an awful story contained in its walls. From the Overseer’s terminal, they learn that the vault is equipped with numerous means to rehabilitate people with chem dependencies, including an emergency method referred to as the ‘clean room’.

The tragedy of Vault 95 is that its inhabitants spent years maintaining their home until a mole unearthed a stash of chems.

The Gunners didn’t bother to clean the place up any, so the skeletons of the original inhabitants still rattle at a touch from a careless foot. Whether they’re chiding the disturbance or laughing at Cait’s attempt to get clean is a mystery.

The clean room is an offshoot of the infirmary, with an observation window that offers a view of a setup that wouldn’t be out of place in an interrogation facility. The singular bright eye of a lamp casts a beam of white light on a chair that sports restraints on the arm rests and ankle rests.

Kaelyn isn’t sure she wants to know why the clean room door is lockable from the terminal.

Curie insists they first disinfect the chair and scrounge the infirmary for any medical supplies that they might need. Cait doesn’t appreciate the implications, and spends her time torn between pacing the confines of the infirmary and peering through the window to the clean room.

When it comes time to barricade the door to the infirmary, just in case any Gunners return, she crosses the room in three quick strides to drag a cabinet in front of the door.

Nate rocks back on his heels, a grimace peeling his lips back. “Don’t know enough about engineering to know if the system will still work, but I can’t find anything obviously wrong with it.”

Cait pauses on the threshold, her face white under the harsh light. “Now that we’re here, I— I dunno if I should go through with this.”

Kaelyn stops short of touching her shoulder. “Why not, Cait?”

She shifts on the spot. “There were reasons I took up psycho, you know. I wanted to forget everything that’s happened. If I don’t have it anymore… am I going to be able to face meself at all?”

Curie’s mouth presses into a hard lie, but she says nothing.

“Can you face yourself if you walk away from this?” Nate asks.

“You can’t keep using psycho as a crutch,” Kaelyn says. “You don’t even want to. If you’re afraid, that’s understandable. But we’ll be here on the other side. You can do this.”

Cait draws in a shaky breath. “Yeah. I can. No more wastin’ time.” She braves the threshold and settles in the chair, prodding at one of the leather restraints. Her shotgun rests on the ground beside her.

At a nod from Cait, Curie triggers the procedure.

The clean room door cycles shut, and the heavy sound of the lock engaging. The restraints clamp around Cait’s wrists and ankles of their own accord. Two needles slide into either side of her neck, pumping her blood out to be filtered through the machinery at the back of the chair. Her body arches, hands white knuckled on the arm rests, held in place only by the restraints.

And her screams. Oh, the screams.

Nate drops a hand on Kaelyn’s shoulder, but his fingers clench too tightly to be offering comfort instead of taking it. Dogmeat prowls around their feet, whining. Curie watches, aghast, but something of the doctor in her keeps her calm and observant.

At last, it’s over. The door unlocks as the white light shines down on Cait’s limp body.

Between the two of them, they haul Cait out of the chair and onto a gurney in the infirmary. Curie checks her pulse and pupil dilation, then cleans the injection marks on her neck. Cait remains pale and silent. Even her recent scrapes and bruises look wan.

Once Curie has set up a work area by Cait’s gurney, she evicts Kaelyn and Nate from the infirmary. They silently set up in the corridor to guard the entrance lest any Gunners remain.

Beyond that, it’s a waiting game. Nate takes stock of their supplies while Kaelyn paces the confines of the room. Dogmeat lounges at Nate’s feet, his eyes tracking Kaelyn. The walls are too close, the ceiling too heavy.

“Nate?” Kaelyn’s voice, soft as it is, carries like a slap in the frigid air.

All sounds of motion behind her cease. “Yeah?”

She looks to the door, hesitates. “Is she going to be all right?”

“All the records say that chair was the real deal. Whether it still functions as intended after two hundred years… we’ll see.”

Kaelyn wraps her arms around herself. “I hate Vault-Tec. But if they managed to build this, that’s… something worthwhile, right?”

The silence is heavy, a weight shared between them, broken by the quietest of inhales. “If you’re looking for permission to hate them, you don’t need mine. But I don’t think this outweighs the damage they’ve done. The chair itself seems… needlessly cruel. Testing how far junkies will go when they’re desperate to get clean.”

“That sounds about right for Vault-Tec.” Kaelyn pauses. Her whisper skitters across the walls to reach his ears. “Do your feet get cold when you’re in a vault?”

He looks to her, then at the supplies scattered over the desk. “Get an itch between my shoulder blades. Like we’re being watched. I keep listening for Shaun’s crying, like he could be down here.”

“I find it hard to be in elevators now,” she confesses. “Any tight spaces.”

Somewhere in the vault, something clanks. Kaelyn and Nate both snap to.

Kaelyn looks from door to door. “Could it be more Gunners?”

“Maybe.” A feral look crosses Nate’s face. “If it is, they won’t be a problem when I’m through with them.”

Kaelyn fights a shiver. This burning, growling resentment is entirely unlike anything she’s ever seen from him in their years of marriage. She recalls his earlier ferocity in the fight. “Something about the Gunners got under your skin.”

At his sides, Nate’s fingers curl and uncurl from fists, like ugly flowers. “They aren’t fit to wear the uniform. The army is meant to serve and protect our countrymen. Not— not whatever the hell this is.”

Perhaps she should have anticipated Nate would not look kindly on the Gunners co-opting military paraphernalia for their own purpose. “I understand.” Still, she remains unsettled. “You’re the one who told me not to let it be personal.”

“And you ignored me, so I’m not seeing why you’re bringing it up.”

Kaelyn steps closer to press a hand to his stomach. “Because this… anger from you, it scares me.”

His countenance softens at once, the hard edges cracked by sudden concern. Peeling her hand away from his stomach, he gently squeezes her fingers. “You don’t have to be. I promise.”

“Good.” She stretches on her toes to kiss his cheek, then returns to her vigil. Dogmeat sits by her feet.

An hour or so later—according to Kaelyn’s pip-boy—the door opens. Curie is framed by the cool infirmary lights. “Madame Cait is stirring, if you would like to be present when she wakes. Friendly faces may do her good, given the circumstances.”

At first there’s a twitch in Cait’s fingers. A flicker of an eyelid. Then her throat bobs and she moans.

“Cait! There you are.” Kaelyn smiles down at her as Nate crosses the room to the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone strapped two nukes to me neck and let ’em blow, but… it worked, didn’t it? I feel different.”

“While we will need further tests to be sure,” Curie says, “it does appear to have filtered the toxins out of your blood.”

“Congratulations,” Nate says. “You came out the other side in one piece.”

“’M always been a tough gal,” she grins. “Now I dunno about you, but I’m ready to get out of here.”

Ready or not, her first attempt to hop off the gurney—ignoring Curie’s protests—ends in her overbalancing and pitching sideways into Curie. But even if Curie warns her to take it slow, Cait recovers quickly and is on her feet in minutes.

Cait’s euphoria might energize her to prowl ahead, but she’s still cautious in case there are any Gunners they’ve missed. In the atrium, where the hardest fighting was, she pauses to take in the carnage. Unlike before, or any other fight Kaelyn’s seen her participate in, her lip peels back in something akin to a grimace. She steps around the nearest corpse, and her boot connects with something that skitters across the floor.

Cait freezes.

The psycho syringe glimmers on the floor, catching the light. A muscle in Cait’s jaw twitches. “We need to go back down there.”

Kaelyn stops. “What? Why?”

“Because it didn’t work. I see this—” she kicks the spent syringe again, and the glass shatters under the combined force of her steel-capped boot and fury “—and I still want the bloody thing!”

“Oh no, madame. That’s normal,” Curie reassures her. “Physical dependency is only one element. It isn’t reasonable to assume psychological dependency would wane with a single detoxification.”

She wavers, on the blade’s edge between trust and disbelief. “Okay. Okay. Thanks.”

At the mouth of Vault 95, she looks up at the green-tinted stars and a smile trembles her mouth. “This has to be the first time I’ve laid all me cards on the table and didn’t end up losin’ everythin’. So thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's weird writing a scenario I’ve already written before but with a different Sole, but hopefully this is a different take!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing, especially with the action scenes!

MacCready stares up at them, glass still raised halfway to his mouth. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding, kid?” Nate arches an eyebrow. “You said you needed to get into Med-Tek, right? Well, my friends here are planning on exploring the place, so if you want in, now’s the chance.”

MacCready scrambles to sit straighter, but all his efforts to control his expression are in vain when his body telegraphs his urgency. “Oh yeah? I want forty percent of the cut.”

Kaelyn says, “Twenty percent, no negotiations. There’s five of us, including you, so that’s an equal split.”

“Deal.” MacCready is on his feet in a heartbeat. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow. Meet at the gates at seven.”

Cait begrudges the early hour, but Kaelyn and Nate are used to such travel schedules, and Curie is of the rare species known as the early bird. She chatters as they head north through Bunker Hill until she is forced to silence when a bullet whizzes past her head. After a quick skirmish to retake the bridge from the newest raider gang to hold it, they head north to Malden Center. They reach the old neighborhood in the afternoon and stop for a lunch break in the no-longer-cold room of an empty restaurant.

With Cait’s chem problem taken care of, it’s time to get back to Curie’s work.

Between bites of her brahmin sandwich, Kaelyn asks, “What do you know about this place?”

MacCready answers before swallowing his current mouthful. “Not a lot. Pre-war research facility. Who knows what’s lurking inside.”

“Medical research and the materials to recreate their cures, I hope,” Curie pipes up.

Cait snorts. “Not what he meant, birdie.”

From Kaelyn’s memory, the Med-Tek Research facility is near the Metro station, which isn’t far from here. She gestures to MacCready’s sniper rifle. “You’re a sharpshooter, right? So you also know how to scout? Come with me, and we’ll look the place over.”

MacCready agrees by unslinging his rifle, and they prowl down the streets to find a good position. She leaves Dogmeat with the others; his keen senses will be put to better use guarding them. An intact building, just across from the Slocum’s Joe, offers a direct view over the parking garage and the sprawling courtyard of Med-Tek Research. The stairs are even mostly intact; there’s only one gap they have to jump up when three steps are missing. MacCready makes Kaelyn go first, citing that he hasn’t been given hazard pay.

Cowardice notwithstanding, they make it onto the roof unscathed and drop to their bellies to slide to the edge. Whatever training MacCready has, it’s apparently in a similar vein to Kaelyn’s, as he knows to not make a target of himself by standing up. She glances sideways at him to find him in the middle of a similar assessment of her.

Their caution is not unwarranted when gunfire rattles down a nearby street. From Kaelyn’s position she can’t see anything, but by the sounds of it, the battle is moving away.

Kaelyn cocks her head. “That sounds like laser fire.”

MacCready grunts. “A lot more lasers on the market, now that the Brotherhood and Institute are free for the robbing. What’s left of them, at least.”

They wait with rifles ready. Shouts overwhelm the gunfire as someone calls a retreat, then fade to silence. They set up the stands for their sniper rifles and survey Med-Tek Research.

When space had been at a premium pre-war, the paved clearing between the wrought-iron fence and the front stairs speaks as loudly as the sleek architecture. The building has been grafted onto an older neighborhood, the rusted metal construction with its rounded edges and bulbous extensions at odds with the older brick buildings.

“I spot shamblers. A lot of them.”

Kaelyn makes a careful sweep with her rifle and notices a withered arm disappearing behind a sky blue car. “I see them. We’re going to need a plan.”

“Not bait.” When Kaelyn doesn’t answer immediately, he insists, “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not it.”

“No,” she agrees, “but ferals are attracted to movement. We have a good position up here. If we draw them to one spot, we can pick them off more easily.”

MacCready remains behind to continue observing while Kaelyn collects the others.

“Got a plan?” Nate asks, his elbow bumping Kaelyn’s as he slides to the edge of the roof beside her.

“Maybe. Do you have any grenades?”

He goes digging in his pack and withdraws three frag grenades with appropriate care. Kaelyn gently pushes Dogmeat’s muzzle away when he tries to sniff them.

Cait scowls at the parking lot. “They’re too spread out for a decent bang to take care of ‘em.”

“That’s where you come in.” At Cait’s incredulous scowl, Kaelyn hurries on, “Grab one of the busted terminals from inside and throw it down there. That should attract their attention. When they’re congregated in one spot, Nate can throw a grenade at the nearest car. If the reactor core blows, that’s a win. Otherwise, the shrapnel should do some damage.”

Nate raises an eyebrow, impressed, but plans like this are the only reason she’s still alive. Without a soldier’s training, she has to improvise.

Cait disappears downstairs and returns a few minutes later with the asked-for terminal, her meaty biceps flexing as she hurls it over the edge of the roof. It lands on the asphalt with a bang, its brittle casing breaking on impact to send bits and pieces skittering across the car park. Two ferals perk up, shambling over to investigate. Another slides out from under a nearby car. A half-dozen in total converge on the terminal but don’t cluster in a pack as Kaelyn had hoped.

The terminal doesn’t hold their attention, either, even if they remain alert.

Realizing this is their best opportunity, Kaelyn gently prods Nate. He pulls the pin on the first grenade and lets it fly. It bounces between the legs of one feral to hit the tire of a car—

They all duck—except for Curie, who wants to observe the explosion. Cait forces her down as a wave of fire and shrapnel fly upward. Kaelyn waits ten seconds before peeping over the edge, but Nate rests a hand on her head to force her down. She glances at him, the motion a question mark, and a second explosion bursts like thunder. It sends up a plume of radioactive dust in a miniature mushroom cloud.

There are two black scorch marks where a Corvega used to be, and several corpses splayed around it.

“I count seven down,” MacCready says.

And yet several more are already racing up the ramp to investigate the twisted, smoking wreck of the Corvega. Nate gives them another thirty seconds, then tosses the second grenade. His aim is as good as ever, this time landing square underneath what was once a three million dollar sports car.

“Now that we’ve alerted everything in a ten-mile radius to our presence,” MacCready grumbles, rubbing his ear.

“You want to go down there and fight the pack on foot, be my guest,” Kaelyn shoots back.

As it turns out, that’s what they have to do anyway. The group steps through the gates to find two curious ferals slithering over the fence to investigate the commotion. The ferals fall in a hail of assorted gunfire before they even have time to charge.

Curie lets out a relieved breath. “I believe the term is ‘yahoo’?”

Nate chuckles. “Never change, Curie.”

A park bench looks out of place with a dead feral draped over it, and the sight triggers that yawning sense of wrongness in Kaelyn. It’s been so long since she’s felt that, since she’s stopped to consider what the world used to be, that she’s unprepared for the strength of it. Shaking her head, she tries to dispel the grief-laden nostalgia.

Now’s not the time.

Before they enter the building, they all don gas masks and cover up all exposed skin. The lobby features two cosy waiting areas on either side of the entrance, offering a good view of the cavernous reception area. All in all, it’s two stories high, with a third story balcony. A number of avocado green panels have fallen from the walls, explaining why so many of the wall sculptures now decorate the floor.

The reception terminal still has power, as evidenced by the glow of its screen, so Kaelyn makes a beeline for it no matter how Cait and MacCready groan. The terminal isn’t even locked, but the message displayed front and center is something of a concern.

_SECURITY ALERT ALPHA_

_CONTAINMENT LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT_

Kaelyn scans the log, but it doesn’t offer any detail of why the lockdown was initiated, only giving staff instructions. And authorizing the use of deadly force.

Any security officers that might have stopped them from wandering around the reception and through the double doors are two hundred years out of a job, so Kaelyn steps over the threshold without hesitation. Directly ahead, a bay of windows offers a view of decontamination arches that lead into the labs. Kaelyn directs Dogmeat to stay close, not wanting him to rush ahead into a pack of ferals.

The terminal attached to the decontamination procedure refuses to operate as long as the lockdown is in effect.

“We have to find a way to end the lockdown,” Kaelyn says. “I bet the labs are past the decon.”

Nate scouts the adjoining room to their left, and reports it to be a dead end. “It’s some kind of locker room?”

Curie hums. “It would make sense for the scientists to scrub off before they leave the facility. They would not wish to spread any contagions.”

That leaves one more unlocked door, the one to their right. A short hallway leads to a room where a lone feral wanders. Motioning for the others to stay quiet, Kaelyn hunkers down in the dim hallway and waits for it to wander into her line of fire. She isn’t the only one who shoots; at least two other guns go off behind her.

They take the stairs up to an office walled with terminal bays and a half-dozen ferals. Cait snarls and her shotgun barks before Kaelyn has time to line up a sneak attack. The ferals converge on their position, arms flailing and teeth bared.

“Watch the floor!” Nate warns.

Indeed, one of the ferals steps on a loose tile at the edge of a hole in the floor and overbalances. It topples into the hole with a screech, clipping its head on exposed metal supports before it vanishes. From the blood staining the tiles, it’s unlikely to still be a threat.

The remaining ferals fall to their combined gunfire, then their group spread out to search the offices. MacCready kicks one of the ferals as he passes by. On the third floor, Kaelyn steps towards a working terminal only to awaken two ferals. She tumbles back through the doorway, pulling the trigger. One feral ends up pinned to a filing cabinet with a railway spike, but the other charges. She backs up, only for a shotgun blast to shred its chest. Both ferals die quickly.

Kaelyn glances at Cait. “Thanks.”

She grins. “This friend thing might not be so bad.”

An exit leads them out to the balcony that overlooks the reception, and they cross the groaning floor to an executive’s office, judging by the free space and luxurious desk. This time Kaelyn pauses before stepping over the threshold, and lo and behold, snarls rasp off the rusted walls, and there’s a slither of flesh. Five people can’t fit in the doorway, but it doesn’t take five to mow down three ferals.

Kaelyn steps over one dead feral, not entirely trusting it won’t swipe at her ankles, to reach the terminal. She hisses quietly. “Password locked.”

“I can help you there.” MacCready places a worn scrap of paper on the desk by her elbow. “My contact gave me this. Should be the password.”

Kaelyn remains skeptical, but types in the string. To her surprise, the terminal welcomes back its user. “Well, good thing we brought you along. You just saved me a world of hassle.”

“Lucky you. I am the best.”

Biting back a snort at the kid’s puffed-up ego, she disables the security alert, lifting the emergency lockdown. Poking around the logs also reveals the reason for the lockdown: a nuclear activity alert.

Kaelyn waves Curie over as she clicks on the Research Report Summaries, but there’s nothing of use. Behind her there’s a clatter as Cait overturns a box on one of the shelves, searching for loot.

Logging off, Kaelyn collects her Railway Rifle. “That should do the trick. Let’s go.”

This time the airlock terminal allows Kaelyn to cycle open the doors without a fuss. The decontamination arches are too old to function, standing in a line like ancient pillars in a grimy metal cathedral.

Curie tuts at the disrepair. “This is not safe. Contagions must be secured, so they do not cause harm elsewhere. We should see to repairing these.”

“If we get a chance,” Kaelyn says. “Depends on what we find down there. If a super virus has been breeding for two centuries, that would be a good idea.”

She opens the door to come face-to-face with a trio of ferals.

She falls back as they lunge towards her, screaming and clawing the air. Before she can raise her rifle to fire, Dogmeat pounces and clamps his jaws around the withered arm inches from her face.

Something yanks her aside just as she registers the whir or turrets. Cait’s shotgun blasts the feral that’s struggling with Dogmeat seconds before bullets spark off the floor and riddle the ferals still in the doorway. Kaelyn breathes a sigh of relief when Dogmeat crowds against her leg, staring up at her with worried brown eyes.

The turrets change their aim, and from the room beyond they can hear the shrieks and howls of more ferals.

Cait reloads her shotgun, her jade eyes alight with the fires of combat. “Let’s put the rest of these shamblers outta their misery!”

“Sure, if you want the turrets to put you out of yours.” MacCready scowls. “We’ll be torn to shreds the second we go in there if we don’t take care of ’em!”

Kaelyn eases away from Nate, listening as best she can to the conflict raging on the other side of the door. When she hears at least one turret cease fire to reload, she pokes her head around the doorway, trying to formulate a plan.

There are two turrets that she can see; potentially more that she can’t if the wails of distant ferals are anything to go by.

Spotting a nearby terminal, Kaelyn calls, “Cover me!”

Ignoring Nate’s cry behind her, she rushes out of cover. The turret tracks the sudden movement and fires—

Pain bursts along her ribs as she vaults over a desk. She skids and lands heavily behind it.

“Kaelyn!”

“Still alive!” she yells back.

When the pain dims to something manageable, she shakes herself out just to hear fresh snarls.

Gunfire echoes from the doorway, and when she dares to peer above the desk she discovers a number of ferals emerging from doorways along the corridor. Some are converging on her position, but those close enough see her are downed by covering fire.

The rest of the horde turn towards the doorway. Some fall to the turrets that relentlessly track them, but too many escape the bullets and charge towards the door. Kaelyn ducks down to avoid the sweep of a turret.

Ignoring it as best she can, she huddles behind the desk to hack the security terminal. The first password fails. As does the second, and the third. Her head swims with pain, clouding her ability to detect patterns in the code dump.

A fourth feral leaps off the balcony, clearing half the distance between the railing and the doorway, where her companions are clustered.

The terminal accepts her password just as she shoulders her Railway Rifle. She takes off one of its withered arms, pinning the limb to the wall behind it. The feral shrieks but doesn’t slow.

Kaelyn ducks behind the desk as a rat-a-tat of gunfire ruins the metal.

_DISABLE TURRETS Y/N?_

She hits Y with the reflexes the Wasteland taught her. At once, the turrets cease fire. A quiet descends on the room, and Kaelyn dares to peek out above the desk.

“Everyone still alive?” MacCready calls.

Nate is already rushing around the security desk. “Honey!”

“Madame!” Curie crouches by her other side, first aid kit in hand.

Nate’s hands settle on her shoulders. “Easy there. Stay still. Are you bleeding?”

Thanks to the ballistic weave in her jacket, any bullet wounds become bruises instead. But no matter how often she insists on it, Nate never believes her until he’s checked for himself. So she lies back and allows him to unzip her jacket and inspect her shirt. It’s damp with only sweat.

“What the—” MacCready gapes at her.

Kaelyn winces as Curie prods her aching ribs. “Ballistic weave. Bulletproof. Now if you’ll all stop overreacting, the floor is uncomfortable.”

“And likely unhygienic,” Curie agrees as she packs up her kit. “Your pulse and vital signs are still within acceptable parameters.”

“Good to know.” Kaelyn takes Nate’s offered hand, and he hauls her to her feet.

“You all right?” Nate rubs her arm, the closest he can come to offering comfort right now.

“I don’t think I like surprises anymore. They’re never good these days.”

MacCready scoffs at the turrets. “Who thought it would be a good idea to put the turret controls in the same room as the turrets? Bah, mungos.”

They sweep through the labs that are still accessible; the sublevel has seen cave-ins in the intervening years. Perhaps from the force of the bombs, perhaps from cheap construction. Curie’s squeals of delight herald her discovery of equipment that might be useful, while Cait and MacCready are less impressed by the pickings. In a storeroom off the side of one of the labs, they strike gold: shelves upon shelves of untouched medical supplies.

Most of the supplies are basic, but will fetch a decent price. Cait notices a bottle of buffout, and her struggle is scrawled on her face with bold inks. Kaelyn prods her in the ribs, but gently, and Cait all but bolts out of the room. They assemble everything they mean to take on one of the lab benches and move on.

The lights in the sublevel no longer function, plunging them further into darkness with every step. Nate suggests using their pip-boys’ inbuilt lights since no one thought to bring a lantern. They’d all believed they’d be climbing the building to reach the labs, not crawling through the basement. It feels strange for a pip-boy’s unnatural green light to illuminate the corridor. Deacon had trained Kaelyn to navigate dark spaces by, yes, making her wear sunglasses in the dark. In comparison to that, this feels relatively light. But even if she’s used to creeping through the dark, the same can’t be said of her companions.

Now they find pre-war skeletons littering the ground, some still dressed in their dusty lab coats. Curie’s mouth pinches, and she observes a moment’s silence for the dead. Perhaps remembering another underground lab where scientists met their end.

They round the corner of the lab. A green beam of torchlight bounces off something at the far side of the room, illuminating a shambling figure—

Kaelyn fires before her mind can process the sight. The railway spike buries itself in the observation window, right where the feral’s head is, but the glass doesn’t even crack.

Nate reaches sideways to push her rifle down. “I think they’re locked inside.”

Indeed, there are other cells, with other ferals banging and clawing at the glass, salivating for enemies they can’t reach. Their struggles are eerily silent, despite their open mouths.

It all paints a grim picture.

Nate approaches one of the unoccupied chambers and angles his pip-boy to inspect what’s on the other side of the glass. A bed, a drain in the center of the tiled floor. There isn’t even a toilet.

The door is equipped with maglocks, controlled by the linked terminal beside it. Kaelyn wipes dust off the keyboard to run a systems check. “They shouldn’t be able to escape.”

“I’m holding you to that,” MacCready grumbles.

Perhaps it would be merciful to end the ferals, but no one wants to release them, so they move on to an even darker room. It takes Kaelyn a moment to realize it’s because Nate’s torch has gone out.

“Hey, hon. My pip-boy’s light is busted. Mind if I borrow yours?”

“Sure.” This arrangement will suit both of them better. Kaelyn doesn’t like calling attention to her presence with her pip-boy’s light. Flipping the latch, she passes it over. “Bring it back in one piece.”

Nate has to adjust the strap so it sits comfortably on his wrist. “Thanks. Will do.”

Kaelyn’s wrist feels naked without the familiar weight, and she’s relegated to the second place as Nate takes the vanguard. If he’s aware how much a target he’s made himself to be, he doesn’t hesitate.

An elevator takes them even lower. Cait shifts from side to side, checking her shotgun; Kaelyn is equally uneasy in the enclosed space, its subterranean temperature tightening her nerves. She closes her eyes, wishing memories of the cryo pod would just leave her be.

Through the grimy windows, a two-story chamber is visible, with balconies that circle the walls and a staircase leading down to the lower level. Movement in the distance has Kaelyn tightening her grip on her rifle, and she counts all the ferals she can see. Five. No doubt there are more.

The leftmost corridor has caved in, so they go right, which opens up to another wing of balconies. The walls are lined with more cells, except the doors have been unlocked and the ferals roam freely.

Nate grabs a clipboard and tosses it near the stairs. The clatter echoes through the dusty, hollow space—followed by several guttural noises of interest and the patter of feet.

Shooting ferals in the dark with only one beam of light is an exercise in terrified frustration. Kaelyn is the best equipped for the job, but her night vision is compromised by the earlier lights. The noise from the firefight attracts yet more ferals, and when their dying rasps fade to silence, no one is willing to move from the doorway in case it isn’t over.

Several gurneys litter the way, rusted to torture devices. Nate prods one of the manacles on the nearest stretcher with the butt of his gun.

Curie casts her gaze about the chamber, her face twisted in some unnameable emotion. “This place is most unsettling.”

MacCready snorts. “You don’t say. How the hell could the pre-war world do this? Lock people up to experiment on like this?”

“The same way the Institute could,” Kaelyn answers grimly. “Or the same way raiders can attack settlements and torture their prisoners.”

The cell block terminal is linked to a Protectron unit, and even though Kaelyn can’t see its housing, she still releases it. Several loud clanks give away its position on the lower level, eliciting several hisses from the dark. The group hunkers in place and lets the Protectron take out the ferals.

They find their way into the adjoining wing, and into another lab. Downstairs, there’s a sealed-off room with wide observation windows. Inside, a laboratory and a pulsing green mass.

A glowing one.

Several other ferals mill about the lab, eliciting a squeak from Curie when one swipes a test tube rack off a bench.

“Oh, I do hope they have not ruined the research inside,” she whispers. “They do not take proper care of their environment.”

“What she said,” MacCready agrees.

Seven ferals roam the space including the glowing one. Retreating back up the stairs, they barricade the door to one of the offices for a drink break and a brainstorming session. Even after shoving a heavy metal desk in front of the door, no one is willing to say it’s safe. They all eat with one hand on their weapons. Kaelyn has the added impediment of Dogmeat in her lap, nosing at her sandwich if she lowers it below head height.

Curie says, “We cannot use grenades to kill the ferals or risk destroying what research lies inside. Or worse, releasing a contagion.”

MacCready’s mouth pinches as he realizes the truth of this. “At least your priorities are in the right order.”

“That glowing one is the biggest problem,” Kaelyn says. “Highly irradiated, and that radiation can revitalize the other ferals around it. We’ll need to play this carefully.”

“A firefight in the lab could have a lot of collateral,” Nate says. “But those corridors around the lab—we could use ‘em as a bottleneck. Draw the ferals out.”

“That means using someone as bait,” MacCready points out. “I ain’t volunteering.”

“Then I will,” Nate says.

Kaelyn draws in a breath but holds her tongue.

Rad-x is passed around the group, and Kaelyn quietly nudges Curie to dose herself to not raise suspicions. MacCready doesn’t know of her synthetic nature, and best it stays that way.

They crouch under the windows as they search for the door, which is at the back. Kaelyn controls the terminal while the others take up positions around the door. When they’re ready, she unlocks it.

Nate whistles to attract the nearest feral’s attention. When it rushes over the threshold, Kaelyn slams the doors shut. There are several bangs and thwarted shrieks on the other side, but Kaelyn is already rolling away from the feral. The others take it down quickly, and they wait in silence for the scratching and snarling to fade as the ferals inside forget their target.

The trick works twice, this time taking off the arm of the third feral that tries to scramble after the second.

The third time, the glowing one waits on the threshold.

Before Kaelyn can close the door it lunges towards her, pulsing a sickly green radiance that warms the air. She barely jumps back in time to avoid the swipe of its claws, and the remaining two ferals charge at her.

Kaelyn levels her rifle as best she can and fires, but the spike merely cuts a wound in the glowing one’s side before embedding itself in the wall. The ghoul lunges for her, only to stagger back as bullets strike it square in the chest. Kaelyn fires another spike for good measure, and the glowing one is pinned to the wall. It hangs there like a puppet with cut strings.

The other ferals have fared little better. They both lie dead on the floor, one ended by Curie and Cait’s combined firepower, while the other was brought down by Dogmeat and finished by MacCready.

“Might wanna check that’s thing’s actually dead,” MacCready comments, indicating the glowing one. “Last thing we need are these things coming back to life.”

Nate squeezes Kaelyn’s shoulder and steps forward to drill the glowing one with a trio of shots. In the silence, its sigh could be a last breath or any lingering air escaping its new orifices.

This lab contains the highest quality equipment they’ve seen in the facility, not to mention the best preserved. Curie barely makes it four steps into the room before she is overtaken by wonder. A skeleton is splayed on a counter under the forceful gaze of a high-powered lamp. A tray of surgical tools lies nearby.

MacCready shivers into his duster. “That cure better be here. It’s the only chance Duncan has left.”

Curie browses the refrigerators that by some miracle still have power, and her first gasp is from feeling a breath of cold air on her face for the first time. The second is from what she finds. “Their samples do not appear to have spoiled in the intervening years! This is momentous!”

If not for the fact they’re contaminated by chemical samples, Kaelyn might be tempted to cart one of the fridges back to Sanctuary.

“There are several samples of a prototype chem they call ‘Prevent’,” Curie says, reading the label on the vial.

MacCready’s head snaps up, and he’s by her side in a heartbeat, gently prying it from her hands. “We did it… holy crap, we actually did it! We just gave Duncan a fighting chance.” He goes to kiss the tube, then thinks better of it.

Curie arches an eyebrow. “Pardon my nosiness, monsieur, but what purpose do you have in mind for this cure?”

For the first full second, MacCready gawks at being addressed so politely. Then he swallows “My son… he’s sick. Nothing else has worked. But I chased down a rumor of this place, and this might be the only thing that can save him.”

Oh. That would explain MacCready’s desperation.

Nate drops a hand on Kaelyn’s shoulder. He says, “Take it, then.”

For a half-second, Cait looks like she might argue, then drops her gaze to the floor.

Curie’s gaze falls to the remaining serum vials. “It would be safer to test this serum before administering it to anyone.”

MacCready cradles the serum to his chest like it’s his second-born child. “We don’t have time for that. Duncan doesn’t have that kind of time.”

Most of the terminals are broken, but Kaelyn autopsies them to remove their hard drives in case some data is recoverable. Curie collects as many papers as she can carry, but Nate suggests she toss out those too eaten by mold to be recoverable. Through all this, Cait stands guard by the door they’ve since shut, her shotgun held loose in her hands. Finally, Curie approaches the fridges again to sort through the mix of chemicals for what might be useful.

“We already have a lot to carry,” Nate says. “How about we make a return trip? Should be safer next time, seeing as we’ve cleared most of the ferals out of this place.”

“Unless they move back in,” MacCready says. “Ferals are like that.”

With a mournful look at the chemicals, Curie closes the door. “I see the wisdom in your suggestion. We still have the equipment upstairs to take with us. And we will need a safe means of transporting these… oh. I thought I saw…” She goes digging through the cupboards again. “Monsieur MacCready? You will need this to safely transport the Prevent sample.” Curie holds out a small metal briefcase. Inside is a styrofoam cutout to fit several vials.

“Uh, thanks.” He takes the proffered briefcase and slots the vial in place. After locking the case, he cradles it against his chest.

“If you’re done siftin’ through this junk, I’m ready to breathe fresh air again,” Cait grumbles.

Retracing their path through the facility, now that their packs are laden with looted goods, offers its own challenges. They encounter a lone feral wandering through the cell block. It serves as a reminder that they don’t know just how many remain.

“Easiest way to get back upstairs? Follow the bodies,” MacCready says.

“That is a… morbid yet practical suggestion,” Curie says, drawing a short laugh from Cait.

In the upper lab, they bag up the supplies they’d sorted earlier, which weighs them down even more. The decrepit corridors are no less unnerving now, and it’s much harder to sneak with a bag full of clunky equipment. It’s also harder to distinguish the rasp of metal on canvas from the hiss of a feral. Dogmeat is alert, ears pricked forward.

Nate holds up a fist. Kaelyn knows enough to stop, but the others take several seconds to understand. Nate peers around the room, glancing at the ceiling. “Anybody else hear that?”

Kaelyn cocks her head on the side. Closes her eyes to better listen. The very walls creak and groan and shiver. There’s the soft patter of dust and debris shaking loose, and—

Footsteps. Not the shuffle of ferals, but the measured beat of a disciplined force.

“Hostiles detected.”

A squad of synths burst into the room, forming a wall of metal skeletons.

“Where the f— hell did these guys come from?!”

“Not now!” Kaelyn shouts. “Run!”

Her rifle may be devastatingly powerful, but it’s not suited to laying down cover fire. She takes a precious second to aim, and almost loses an ear to a blue laser beam. Her shot pins one synth the wall, but it retains enough of its systems to lift its arm and fire back. She ducks around the corner.

Dogmeat barks furiously from where Nate has pulled him back and Kaelyn signals for him to stay. He won’t be of much assistance against the synths with their metal bones and mechanical innards.

Nate leans around the doorframe and fires a rapid volley, drawing back mere seconds before lasers scorch his face. Footsteps approach, inhumanly fast, and a synth surges through the doorway with a shock baton sparking in its grasp.

It swings and Nate ducks, the baton striking the wall where he was standing. Cait’s shotgun roars and the synth drops to the ground, the hole in its back sparking as its yellow eyes grow dim. Dogmeat bites its arm and shakes for good measure, but more synths close in.

Kaelyn fires as one sprints towards the doorway and the spike tears through its shoulder. The synth’s arm falls limp at its side, a pistol grasped uselessly in its locked fingers. But it keeps coming, its vacant yellow stare fixed upon them. Nate fires and hits a bullseye, the round striking the synth clean in its forehead.

It freezes midstep and collapses, jerky and mechanical as its processors shut down. Cait, Curie and Nate lay down suppressing fire on the remaining synths, giving MacCready the chance to ready his rifle and, with the synths distracted, lines up his shot.

Kaelyn can’t see his target, but one of the laser pistols cuts out and a well placed shot from Curie takes out the remaining synth. Silence falls, the air sharp and clear with ozone. When Kaelyn peers into the room, she sees two synths lying unresponsive on the floor, the one she had pinned with a railway spike still suspended on the wall, a bullet hole in its head.

“Why the heck are the Institute sending synths in here?” MacCready fumes, slinging his rifle as he follows the others into the room.

“Maybe they are also seeking laboratory equipment?” Curie suggests, “or perhaps they too have heard of the formula?”

MacCready’s expression sours at that. “Yeah? Well they’ll have to pry it from my cold dead fingers before they take it from me!”

“We get surprised like that again an’ that might be the case,” Cait replies, ignoring the glare he cuts her way.

“You’ve got a point.” Kaelyn frowns, already creeping towards the door from which the synths came. “That was too close for comfort.”

“How many do you think there are?” MacCready asks, and Kaelyn doesn’t miss the wideness of his eyes or the sweat glistening on his face.

“I don’t know,” Kaelyn says. She feels unease flicker in her gut, wondering if this is her fault. Maybe the synths are searching for supplies. Or maybe they’re hunting for her.

She feels Nate draw near, his hand brushing over her back. Despite the gesture, his expression remains grim, his eyes guarded and calculating as he dons his soldier’s mask. “We need to be careful,” he says, his voice carrying in the quiet. “If there are more of them, we could be walking into an ambush. They could be watching the entrance.”

Kaelyn frowns as she thinks. “Then we should watch for them first.”

At their quizzical looks, Kaelyn inclines her head and leads the way, stepping with care. The others follow with less stealth and grace. They pass through the office full of cubicles without incident, and on Kaelyn’s signal, follow her out onto the second story balcony overlooking the reception area.

Below them synths patrol the ground floor, one standing guard at the front doors. Kaelyn counts five of them, though there could easily be more. Her eyes meet MacCready’s and he nods, readying his sniper rifle as Kaelyn unslings hers. They line up their shots, thenKaelyn whispers a countdown—and they fire just as Cait yells.

The floor shudders beneath her, and Kaelyn turns just as Nate fires at the synth that has dropped down behind her. Footsteps echo from above, and she glances up to see more appear at the railing above her.

“Fall back!” Nate yells, firing at the synths above just as lasers beams shoot from the ground floor. Cait seizes Kaelyn’s shoulder and yanks her up, hauling her back to the office as Curie runs inside with Dogmeat. MacCready follows, but they’re barely through the doorway when more lasers score the wall behind them.

More synths are inside, emerging from where they had hidden in the cubicles.

Kaelyn’s heart lurches as Dogmeat charges towards the nearest synth, knocking it back. A second synth takes aim at him, only to be downed by Curie before she ducks back into cover.

Kaelyn races towards them, ignoring Cait’s shout as she draws Deliverer. The synth seizes Dogmeat by his bandanna and she fires. Dogmeat pulls away as the gen one spasms beneath him and then grows still, sparking where Kaelyn shot it in the head.

She rushes towards Dogmeat and sees a white blur in her peripheral vision. Before she can turn the synth collides with her and they crash through a partition wall.

The synth pins her arms, its grip inhumanly strong, pain ratcheting up her shoulders. Panic is a closing vice, constricting her heart and lungs as she glares over her shoulder into a pair of empty glowing eyes.

Dogmeat snarls and the synth jerks back as he yanks on its leg. The synth turns its head to look at him—and a laser flashes, striking its head. The plastic epidermis sizzles and the synth goes limp.

“Hon!” By the time she’s pushed the gen two away Nate is crouched beside her, offering one hand as he scans for more hostiles. He pulls her to her feet, squeezing her hand. Satisfied she isn’t grievously wounded, he says, “We need to get out of here.”

Kaelyn nods, holding his hand a moment longer before they part.

“Shite!” Cait snarls, pulling back from the doorway as lasers streamed through. Together Nate and Kaelyn sprint back to the door.

As the barrage of blue lasers cut out, MacCready rises and fires. He drops back behind his cover of a desk as more lasers flash, charring its surface.

Nate takes advantage, leaning around the door frame and firing a short burst. With another snarl, Cait surges from the room and blasts her shotgun into the torso of the remaining synth.

“Come on!” she yells, gesturing for them to follow. “It’s clear!”

Nate nods and they dart out of the office. Cait leads the way with Curie and MacCready hot on her heels. With Dogmeat bounding ahead, Kaelyn and Nate bring up the rear.

They reach the next landing when they hear footsteps echoing down the staircase behind them. Nate pushes Kaelyn around the corner as lasers blacken the wall behind them.

Baring his teeth, he leans back around the corner and fires. There’s a metallic thunk and a synth falls down the stairwell, it’s skin charred and eyes dull.

“Go!” Nate roars. “I’ll be right behind you!”

The sooner Kaelyn moves, the sooner he runs, so she doesn’t argue. Racing down the stairs, she follows the boom of Cait’s shotgun and MacCready’s taunts. Enough synths have fallen that they now have a chance to take on the remaining guards at the front door. Kaelyn dives around the corner into cover and risks a glance behind her to see if Nate’s followed yet. He hasn’t.

Night has long since fallen with its trailing blue-black cloak. Kaelyn veers away from the built-up area and into the nearby woodlands. They vault over the fence, which offers a measure of cover. When they’re out of immediate view from the entrance, they double over, hands on knees, panting.

Kaelyn glances around and realizes—

Nate isn’t here.

She looks around again, but can’t see him nearby. “Did anyone see—?”

A flash of blue-white light illuminates Med-Tek’s windows, like so many glowing eyes.

“What the f— fudge?” MacCready pants.

“It looked to be lightning, but I see no clouds in the sky,” Curie says, peering up at the stars.

Cait snorts. “’S not like lightning can strike inside a building.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Dumping her loot, Kaelyn takes off at a run back to the entrance, synths be damned. Ignores the shouts behind her. Shouldering open the doors, she takes a moment to swap her Railway Rifle for the more versatile Deliverer. There’s movement on the ground, and she plants a trio of shots in the chassis of the gen one crawling towards her.

The door groans and Cait swears behind her. “This is what I do for you.”

Later, Kaelyn will properly appreciate the backup. Now she jogs up the stairs, spurred on by the fearful prance of her heart. As much as it turns her stomach, she checks the piles of the dead for a flash of auburn hair, of healthy human skin between withered feral flesh and plastic.

He can’t be dead. He can’t be.

The smell of ozone pervades the reception, but there’s no carbon scoring. Nothing to indicate anything happened here beyond the usual firefight.

“Nate?” she calls. “Where are you? Nate!”

Nothing, save for her own panic rebounding off the walls.

“Quit that racket!” Cait hisses. “You’ll bring ’em all down on us next!”

“I… don’t think they’re here anymore,” MacCready ventures.

Kaelyn starts. When did he follow them?

He continues, “Whoever or whatever they are.”

“The Institute. Or what’s left of them.” The words are glass shards in her throat, catching and tearing her tender flesh.

He gapes. “What? I thought they were wiped out. What are they after?”

Kaelyn swallows. Peers down the corridor, a part of her hoping Nate will round the corner with a cocky smile and a laugh. He doesn’t. “Me. They want me.”

She knows that flash of light.

The Institute has a working molecular relay.

Cait drops a heavy hand on Kaelyn’s shoulder. It feels like a rock. “Then we find him and make these bastards bleed. C’mon. Standing here moping ain’t gonna help.”

Kaelyn swallows. Takes in the room one more time. It remains silent. “You’re right.”

Cait herds her outside. Curie apologizes for not following Kaelyn in, which she waves off half-heartedly.

MacCready briefly bares his teeth as he thinks. Swallowing heavily, he gestures to the metal briefcase. “I’ve gotta deliver this as soon as possible.”

Kaelyn swallows. “Your son can’t wait. I understand.”

MacCready pauses. He scowls, worry tugging at his brow. “I, uh, hope Nate turns up soon. If you still haven’t found him by the time I get back, hit me up. I’ll give you a discount.” With that, he turns on his heel and sets off at a dead run, the serum bundled safely in his pack.

That leaves Kaelyn to round up Dogmeat for another search, seeking her husband, a trail, a sign. Anything.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!

Kaelyn treks through the night to reach Sanctuary, driven by a desperate sort of determination. She can’t stop. Can’t slow down. Even Dogmeat flags, worn out from the day’s events, and she has to choke back frustration. Cait agrees to lead Curie back to the nearby safety of Greentop Nursery, where they split off.

Traveling at night is dangerous, after all.

Kaelyn’s eyes are itchy from the unholy morning chill, and her nose runs; autumn is creeping up on them in fits and starts. In a few months, it’ll be her anniversary of leaving Vault 111. Of the Great War.

Closing in on a year, and she’s back to square one.

Dogmeat’s exhausted snuffling persuades her to hole up in the backseat of a Corvega that somehow made it fifty feet off the road and into the scrub. He hops up on the upholstery beside her and sniffs at her cheek. In the dark, she can detect a faint green glimmer where his eyes are. He plops down across her lap and noses at her chin. Kaelyn runs her fingers through his fur and blinks away the itch in her eyes. Not even his keen nose can track teleportation.

When remaining still becomes unbearable, she sets off again, this time carrying Dogmeat. He’s heavy, but not as much as the leaden stone that rattles in her chest.

She passes the sunburst-engraved sign as the sun marks its ascent to the eastern skies with golden beams and a rose-silk backdrop.

If Nate escaped, he might come home first.

Kaelyn crosses the threshold, and there’s no one but Codsworth to greet her. “Mum! I am glad to see you returned safely once more! My, but you look distraught. Perhaps the hubby can offer one of those hugs you humans are so fond of?”

It’s a punch that cracks her sternum. Kaelyn actually raises her hand to the spot, expecting to feel broken bone. “He’s missing, Codsworth. You haven’t seen him?”

“Sir was with you, the last I saw of him.” Codsworth peers at her, his artificial irises widening as he registers her distress. “He’s truly gone? Again?” At her nod, as sharp as a whip crack, he continues, “Not to worry, mum. Even though you insisted he was gone last time, you found him! We can find him again.”

“I sure hope so, Codsworth.”

She should keep moving, should move on to the Castle, should do something, but finds herself sinking onto the couch instead. When Kaelyn next cracks her eyes open, the sky outside the window is an indomitable midday blue. Codsworth forces a sandwich on her, and she decides to multitask by eating and searching outside at the same time, no matter how Codsworth tuts about manners.

Sturges whistles a tune as he works, and tips his hammer in Kaelyn’s direction as she approaches. “Nice of you to stop by this time. Something I can help you with?”

She blinks. “This time?”

“Sure, last time you went into Vault 111, a few days ago. Heard that awful elevator’s racket in the dead of night.”

A quiet instinct causes every muscle in her body to still. “That… wasn’t me. I haven’t been into the vault since the radstorm.”

They look at each other.

Sturges swears softly under his breath. “Who else has access? Snaffled my own pip-boy to tinker with, but it’s under lock and key.”

Nate has his own pip-boy—or hers, more accurately. He might be down there, for whatever reason. But then, why would he stay down there?

“There’s only one way to find out.”

An unlikely lead is better than no lead, so Kaelyn ventures yet again into the depths of Vault 111. Codsworth volunteers to search with them, as he did all those months ago when she’d first stumbled out of the vault and he’d led her on a fruitless search of the neighborhood. Sturges also comes with, after grabbing a 10mm from his house.

A gust of propellant takes Codsworth down the catwalk, unmoored from the memories that shackle themselves to Kaelyn’s ankles with manacles of ice.

She remembers the imprint of cold concrete against her hands and knees.

They step into Bay C and Sturges whistles.

Codsworth hovers by Kaelyn’s elbow, optics trained on the spot. “What’s all this, eh? Vault 111 doesn’t happen to have a rat problem, now would it?”

Kaelyn’s mouth thins. “Only in the loosest sense of the word.”

Two cryo pods are missing, like two gaps in a monster’s teeth. Sturges examines the cuts in the cabling that once hooked the pods in the array. “Surgical. From the scrap lying around, I’d say these were dismantled before being moved. We’d have noticed if someone lugged two of these around.”

Kaelyn swallows. “The Institute is the only outsider who knows about the stasis. I don’t make a habit of telling people for this very reason.”

The Institute is an infamous scavenger, but first Diamond City and now Vault 111?

Codsworth says, “I’m afraid my sensors aren’t picking up any life signs here. Should we search the rest of the vault, mum? Mister Nate is sure to turn up somewhere.”

Kaelyn agrees, not because she expects to find him but because she needs to know if any other part of the vault has been ransacked.

All they find is a missing card from Sturges’ deck and undisturbed dust.

—

It’s an uncanny sort of repetition that Kaelyn again heaves open the door to Valentine Detective Agency, its neon signage brighter than her own bruised and pained heart.

This time, at least, Ellie isn’t the only one in the office. Valentine glances up at her entrance, his welcoming quip dying on his tongue. “Where’s the fire?”

Kaelyn breaks. “Nate’s missing! He said he’d guard the rear and follow us out, but he never did, and we never found a body—”

“Woah, woah. Slow down, partner. Take it from the top.”

Ellie ushers Kaelyn into the nearest seat, and it feels like it did all those months ago when they first took on her case. Only instead of her husband dead and her son missing, it’s the other way around.

Ellie fixes two mugs of tea and passes the strongest brewed one to Kaelyn. “You know the drill, gumshoe. Start from the beginning with everything you know.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Kaelyn explains everything, starting with their trip to Med-Tek Research, striking gold for both Curie and MacCready, then their encounter with the mob of synths. How Nate told her to run, and then he was gone. She also explains what they found in Vault 111.

Her hands itch for Dogmeat, but she’d left him in Sanctuary to get some rest.

While Ellie scribbles down notes in a fresh case file, Valentine occasionally asks questions, gently directing her to provide more details.

“I hate to ask, but you’re certain you didn’t find a body?”

Throat tight, she nods once. As sharp as the slash of a knife. “Nick, they somehow built another molecular relay.”

“Right. Kidnapping sounds like the next bet. Wherever they’re operating from, they have the power and resources to rebuild their technological marvels. It would have to be secure, too, else raiders would get to it. Our last leads into sniffing out their hidey hole dried up, but we’ll go over it from the top. See if there’s anything we missed.”

Kaelyn goes still. “Oh, I know where to get answers. I’m the one who gave them Starlight Drive-In.”

Valentine puts out a hand to halt her. The metal one, his skeletal fingers somehow warm through her jacket. “Slow down there, partner. You don’t want to be running half-cocked. Take a deep breath.”

“Coursers attacked me, and I shook it off. Raiders kidnapped me, and I pretended it wasn’t a problem. Now they’ve got my husband, and I don’t know what they’re going to do to him.” Scrubbing a hand over her face to hide any evidence of the heat in her eyes, she drags in the asked-for breath. “That’s it. This time they die.”

“I said slow _down_ ,” Valentine says, sharper. “That’s not a road you want to travel again.”

She flares. “And why not? These people shot my husband, kidnapped my baby, raised him to be a monster, and now they’ve got my husband, too. How much more can they take from me?”

The anger is a familiar flow of lava in her gut, casting the world in its red glow, intoxicating and tempting even as a quiet part of her remembers the nights of regret.

This time Valentine plants both hands on her shoulders, his fingers curling into her jacket like tree roots to hold her in place. As if his hot yellow gaze isn’t enough to do that on its own. “Because you told me you can’t do it again. Maybe you aren’t thanking me for it now, but I’m going to hold ya to that.”

Kaelyn grits her teeth. “Can we just get on with it?”

He looks her over, and isn’t entirely reassured by whatever he finds. “How about we talk to your lantern-lighting friends first? Out of all the players on the board, they’d have the most information on the Institute’s remnants.”

Every fiber of her being screams to go north, but she sees the logic. As much as she doesn’t want to. “Let’s go, then. Quickly.”

Ellie wishes them good luck as Valentine checks his revolver in his underarm holster.

—

Raised voices float up the stairs to Old North Church’s undercroft, warming the air with fury.

“We have a vetting process for a reason, Deacon, and it isn’t your place to flaunt the rules!”

“No? The last agent we let into HQ ahead of schedule worked out for us, and we need intel on the Institute now—”

“That was different and you know it!”

Kaelyn and Valentine reach the bottom of the stairs to find Desdemona and Carrington squaring off against Deacon and Phoenix—and huddled to the side, in the shadow of a brick pillar, is Expat. None of the agents scattered around the undercroft even pretend they’re not eavesdropping.

Desdemona’s gaze slides past Deacon to take in Kaelyn and Valentine. “Whisper. I was expecting you sooner. Stay put; we have business once this is sorted.”

Kaelyn steps forward. “Whatever it is, it can wait. Nate was taken by the Institute!”

The currents in the room shift, the attention settling on her.

“That is serious,” Carrington says, “but right now we have a protocol breach to address. Deacon brought two unvetted agents into HQ, as you can see.”

“And clearly I’m in the right here,” Deacon retorts, “and Whisper proves it. Expat has an in, and we need eyes on it, yesterday.”

Carrington rounds on Deacon. “We aren’t letting an active first generation synth anywhere near Tom. I won’t see him put in harm’s way on one of your larks.”

Valentine clears his throat but says nothing.

Deacon smiles, his voice dripping with false cheer. “Ah, yes, one of my infamous, totally useless larks that I, your top spy, am known for.”

Desdemona cuts in, “That’s _enough_. It’s not the immediate issue here.”

“That’s right. It isn’t.” Kaelyn comes to a halt beside Deacon. “I’ll vouch for Phoenix and Expat. That’s two heavies advocating for them. It’s too late for them to un-learn where HQ is and Deacon always has a method to his madness.”

“You don’t even know what they’re proposing,” Carrington says. “Expat wishes Tom to examine a live first generation synth.”

Expat jumps in with, “The synth is receiving some kind of signal, but I don’t know what. I never worked with the old models, so I don’t really know how they operate. Since someone stole the Institute’s radio modifications to DC Radio, I figured they could be linked. I think it’s some kind of recall order for old gen synths.”

“So this signal has to have a source, right?” Deacon says, redirecting the room’s attention back to him. “If we had some way to measure the strength of the signal, it’ll lead us straight to this rogue group.”

Kaelyn says, “It’s one more lead than I had this morning, so I’ll take it.”

Desdemona fumbles in her vest pocket for her packet of cigarettes. “Tell us what happened with Sentinel.”

_Finally._

“We procured old research from the Med-Tek facility. When we emerged from the labs, a horde of synths were waiting for us. They have access to another molecular relay. That’s how they took Nate.”

Expat sucks in a shocked inhale. Desdemona and Carrington exchange glances. Other watching agents mutter amongst themselves.

Deacon absorbs all this in silence, nodding here and there. He doesn’t seem surprised, but he’s always been hard to rattle. “Question: why him and not you?”

“I think they were tracking the courser chip in my pip-boy, but Nate and I swapped pip-boys.”

Deacon snaps his fingers. “I bet their orders were ‘follow and secure the source of this signal’. Old gens are dumb as a bunch of rocks—present company excluded. Lo and behold, they followed their orders to the letter, and the Institute didn’t get what it bargained for.”

Deacon prods Kaelyn with a few more questions, trying to flesh out the details. The number of synths, how long they were in the facility if synths managed to sneak in behind them, how Nate was separated from the group. Kaelyn answers as best she can, even if it rubs salt into the wound, knowing this is the only way he can help. Information is Deacon’s greatest weapon. Give him what he needs, and he’ll wield it with the same devastating precision as his sniper rifle.

Expat says quietly, “If you need any help, I’m here.”

The unexpected gesture almost hurts.

Kaelyn clears her throat. “Just—do you know where they might have taken him? And why?”

They shake their head, slow and somber. “That’s the question everyone keeps asking me that I don’t have an answer to. As for why, revenge. They…” they worry their lip between their teeth, “probably don’t need test subjects, and they can’t replace him with a synth.”

Kaelyn says, “Well, we know where we can get answers from—Madison Li.”

Expat lights up, and the reaction throws Kaelyn. “Li is head of Advanced Systems! She could crack this.”

Over their shoulder, Desdemona and Carrington trade glances. They know that’s not what Kaelyn has in mind.

Kaelyn grits her teeth. “Why do you think she’ll help?”

Expat looks quizzical. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“Because she— look, wouldn’t she know how to rebuild the molecular relay?”

“Probably, but that thing is _huge_ and she can’t even get people on gardening rotations. You don’t believe me, let’s go talk to her.”

“Is that a good idea?” Phoenix asks.

Expat pats his elbow. “She’s a hardass, but just wants to be left alone with her research. She kept our department out of the power games.”

Desdemona looks between them. “You should see what she knows regardless, and if you can… persuade her to help you, so much the better. If she won’t, then we’ll let Tom examine the synth.”

Kaelyn says, “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go already.”

“Hold on.” Desdemona raises a hand. “We aren’t finished yet. Why did you only come here now, Whisper?”

Kaelyn draws in a deep breath, willing herself to not rise to the lingering frustration in Desdemona’s tone. “What do you mean? You were expecting me for something?”

At that, Desdemona’s face clouds over. “You didn’t receive the message?”

“What message?”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she says, “That would explain it. We need to talk, Whisper.”

Great. Just what Kaelyn needs right now. More work. A harsh assessment, perhaps, but the yawning space behind her breastbone aches, and a part of her shies away from this familiar fear, knowing where it led last time.

“Is this more urgent than my missing husband? I warn you, it’s a high bar to clear.”

“More urgent? Perhaps not. Equally urgent? Undoubtedly. It’s about that synth of your son. We just confirmed that he never reached the next stop on his journey. The caravan he was with was attacked by unknown assailants, but his body was never found.”

Already blindsided by mention of the synth Shaun, this newest revelation slips between her ribs like a fine blade, directly into the aching space beyond.

“You’re saying Shaun is missing too?”

“That goes beyond coincidence.” Valentine rests a hand at the small of her back, bolstering her with his presence. “First the Institute try for you, then someone makes off with your man, and now this? Not a chance they’re unrelated.”

Fixing Desdemona with a sharp look, Kaelyn asks, “I told you to find him a home right after the Institute blew. Months ago. Why am I only learning of this now?”

“Because it took weeks alone to find a sympathetic family who wouldn’t ask questions, verify their trustworthiness, and scout the safest route possible,” Desdemona retorts. “Then it took weeks for word to reach us that the caravan was overdue, and longer still to confirm that he’s nowhere to be found.”

Overwhelmed by a sudden rush of frustration, she takes to pacing the confines of the room with the constrained fury of a caged tiger. “Is there any doubt it’s the Institute at this point?”

“PAM likes to remind us of the danger of relying on assumptions.” Desdemona pauses. “But yes, we do suspect the Institute’s remnants. With their pattern of confirmed sightings, even she’s reasonably confident it’s them. We haven’t found any evidence of raiders or super mutants, and slavers don’t generally operate this far north.”

Despite herself, it draws a ghost of a smirk from Kaelyn like a rare fish coaxed from the deep to shimmer just below the ocean’s surface. “PAM didn’t use those words, I bet.”

“No,” Desdemona agrees with a short, tired laugh. “I’d wager the Institute have both your husband and synth son, which will make finding both of them easier.”

Kaelyn fights a flinch at _your synth son_. Maybe the Railroad is comprised of the only people in the Commonwealth who aren’t disturbed by the prospect, but that doesn’t mean Kaelyn herself isn’t uncomfortable with it. “That’s the only silver lining we have?”

“Besides Expat’s synth lead? Follow that up, interrogate the survivors at Starlight, and we’ll keep digging on our end. Deacon, I need you in the field on this one.”

“Got it, boss.” In the corner of his eye, just visible behind his sunglasses, his gaze darts to Kaelyn. “I’ll see what I can dig up on your man, okay?”

Kaelyn nods. “Appreciate it.”

Before they leave, in the shadow of the staircase, Valentine touches Kaelyn’s shoulder. “What are you planning on doing?”

She’s done all this once. The path is familiar, her boots worn, and her body exhausted from experience. “Whatever I have to.”

—

Expat had left their synth deactivated in the basement of a building several blocks away from HQ. They’re the only one who doesn’t pause at the sight of the synth slumped over, skipping forward to tinker with its wiring.

“You’re sure that thing won’t take offense at our presence?” Valentine asks.

“I messed with the IFF so it shouldn’t read anything as hostile,” Expat says idly. “Only problem is it won’t fight back when attacked.”

“Fine by me,” Kaelyn says.

With a huff of victory, Expat steps back as the synth reactivates. It stands straight, eyes glowing yellow. Since it’s a gen one, it doesn’t even have a polymer skin to protect its metal and plastic innards.

“Taking three synths on a road trip,” Phoenix muses. “One from each generation. This is going to be interesting. Hey, if Valentine can get by with some clothes, should we dress up Uno over here?”

Valentine folds his arms across his chest. “It ain’t getting my hat if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

In the end, Phoenix donates his own jacket and cap to the cause, mostly because Kaelyn hurries them along. The coat hangs oddly on Uno’s frame and the cap often slips down to cover its eyes, prompting it to remove the obstruction and throw it on the ground. Phoenix looks scandalized every time, muttering about manners.

On any other occasion, Kaelyn would have been amused by his antics. Now Valentine’s stealthy touches at the small of her back remind her not to lose her temper.

When Starlight’s big screen dominates the horizon, Phoenix’s jovial mood slides away. “I’m sorry, Ex,” he says. “I can’t go near them.”

Expat touches his elbow. “I understand. Go back to HQ and let them know we reached Starlight. Be safe.”

He briefly covers their hand with his own. “You too.”

Phoenix doubles back the way they came as fast as he can without breaking into a jog. Expat watches him until he’s out of sight with an unreadable expression. Squaring their shoulders, they command Uno to follow them and march up the road to Starlight Drive-In.

There are more people in the settlement than Kaelyn remembers. They now have several generators roaring away to provide enough power for their expanded outpost. She looks around for any massive constructions, anything that looks vaguely similar to the molecular relay, but finds nothing. Of course, it would be conspicuous.

So Kaelyn hunts down Madison Li. A settler points her to a new greenhouse, and not even Valentine’s hand on her shoulder can slow her down. She doesn’t know if the others are even following her.

Kaelyn bursts into the greenhouse, stalking between the rows of carrot sprouts, ignoring the startled looks from the various workers. A flash of black in her peripheral betrays X6-88’s presence in the corner, looking unhappy among the flowers.

Madison stands by a tray of bloodleaves, with a brawny man close beside her. She glances up at the intrusion, eyes narrowed, but something gives her pause. “What happened this time?”

Kaelyn growls, “My husband is missing. Where is he?”

“Why on earth do you think I would have any idea—”

“Because he was caught in what looked suspiciously like a relay beam, and you’re the head of Advanced Systems!”

“Hey!” the man beside her snaps, and Kaelyn realizes it’s none other than Brian Virgil. He’s now something of a mismatch with poorly repaired glasses and a now-burly figure thanks to the FEV. “You don’t yell at Madison.”

Kaelyn levels a glare at him. “You did not just say that to me.”

Madison, however, redirects attention away from Virgil. “The relay was destroyed with the rest of the Institute—”

Virgil shoves Madison to the ground as a gun fires from the stalks behind them. Glass shatters across the greenhouse, and in the brief seconds where the world turns in slow motion, a man lunges from behind the corn to aim his pistol squarely at Madison.

“No!” Virgil seizes the man’s arm, forcing it up towards the ceiling.

More bullets fire and Kaelyn wrenches Madison to her feet as the glass above falls in a deadly shower. Around them the other workers scream, charging for the closest exits in a stampede.

Before X6 reaches Virgil and the struggling assassin, Valentine grabs Kaelyn’s arm. “Let’s go!”

They run, Kaelyn ushering Madison just ahead of her. They emerge out into the open, Valentine’s head swivelling as he seeks the nearest cover. He stops dead, looking up at the cinema screen.

Kaelyn turns her head to see something glint on the roof of the screen. A blue laser streaks through the air.

She sees movement in her peripheral vision, and Valentine collides with Madison Li, the laser beam just scorching the end of his coattails.

“Move! Move! Move!” he yells, holding Li upright with one hand as the other shoves Kaelyn back towards the greenhouse. Laser beams fly around them in a burning rain, each shot closer than the last. A black blur darts out of the greenhouse, towards the massive screen.

Kaelyn dives behind the greenhouse corner and Madison drops down beside her, panting. Valentine drops into a crouch beside them, his pistol drawn. More greenhouse panels warp and crack as the sniper fires from above—then the lasers cut out.

Valentine risks a glance around the corner and hisses softly. “Shit.”

A piercing scream echoes—then abruptly cuts out.

Valentine rises to his feet, pistol lowered. “Well,” he said grimly, turning to face Madison and Kaelyn. “Looks like your courser just solved our sniper problem.”

Silence falls through the greenhouse. Only the plants dare to whisper.

Madison pushes past Kaelyn’s protective arm to race inside, reaching Virgil. “Brian! Are you hurt?”

He winces and rubs his wrist. “Don’t worry about me. Were you hurt?”

Madison draws in a shaky breath. “I’m fine, thank you. Dammit, Ayo…”

Kaelyn’s gaze snaps to her. “Ayo? What’d you do to anger him?”

Her mouth thins. “He wanted me to ‘return to the fold’, in his words, and turn this settlement over to his control. I told him I was done with the Institute.”

Expat comes to a halt beside Kaelyn and nudges her side. “See? I told you she isn’t behind this.”

Madison’s expression softens when she notices Expat. “Sade. I wasn’t expecting you back. And you… have two synths with you?”

Uno stands placidly behind Expat, naked without Phoenix’s clothes. Valentine tips his hat with a rueful twist of his mouth as Madison registers him for the first time.

“We were hoping you had some answers,” Expat says. “Not about Valentine; he’s just like that.”

Madison frowns as she thinks, her gaze darting between the dead assassin, Kaelyn, Expat and Uno. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I think we should take this somewhere else.”

“That would be a wise course of action.”

Kaelyn startles, realising that X6 now stands in the doorway.

“X6!” Madison says. “Report.”

“Dr Rosalind Orman was the attacker atop the screen. She refused to surrender when confronted. I did not recognize the assailant in the greenhouse, but it appears likely he was coordinating with Dr Orman.”

“Rosalind was behind this?” Madison blinks, her face slack. “Her group have been here for weeks, before Ayo contacted me. When did she…”

Something flickers at the edges of Kaelyn’s memory. She snaps her fingers. “I saw her and her ragtag group a while ago, long before you sought asylum with the Minutemen. Maybe she found Ayo first and then was ordered here?”

Madison scowls. “She and Evan were insistent that we return to Ayo.” Scrubbing a hand across her face, she mutters something to herself, then draws in a breath. “Yet another mess to clean up. X6, can you deal with the… the bodies?”

“Respectfully,” X6-88 says, “I must protect you from all threats. You are not secure here.”

For a split second, she looks ready to snap, then gives in without a fight. “Come on, then. My office, all of you.”

Virgil tags along, not dissuaded by Madison’s arch look. Their entourage attracts attention from other settlers along the way, but the combined frustration of Kaelyn, Madison and X6-88 keeps everyone at a distance.

In Madison’s office, she prowls around her desk but doesn’t sit. “Now. You said something about your husband and the relay?”

“We were ambushed by synths,” Kaelyn supplies, “and after we were separated, there was a flash of blue light and he was gone.”

Madison frowns thoughtfully. “If anyone’s rebuilt the relay, that’d be news to me.”

“I have first-hand experience with the relay. I know what I saw.”

Madison drums her fingers on her desk as she thinks. “You built a teleporter and hijacked the signal to activate the relay, proving it possible to build with what materials are available in the Commonwealth. The question is why him and not you. They would also need something to lock in on your signal.”

Kaelyn sucks in a breath. “Like the courser chip you installed in my pip-boy?”

Her gaze flits to Kaelyn’s wrist. “Yes, but the relay should be more precise than that unless the calibration is off.”

Kaelyn buries her head in her hands. “We swapped pip-boys. His broke and he needed the light.”

“I see.”

Once again, the plot was to find her. And they got Nate instead. She should have used the light herself, dammit. Then Nate would be safe right now.

Valentine steps in. “Gen twos were seen stripping a junkyard a fortnight ago. Do you know anything about it?”

Madison’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline at the sight of an old gen two wearing clothes and speaking as if he’s a person. No one remembers the experiments on him, evidently.

“Answer his question,” Kaelyn says.

Madison clears her throat. “No.” But she’s aware it’s the expected answer regardless of any actual involvement, because she adds, “You may have no reason to believe me, but we have no synths here.”

“You were head of Advanced Systems. Can you at least speculate what they were doing?”

“If the synths were somehow reset to their surface protocols, it might explain their actions. But there must be someplace they’re dropping off their salvage. If you can find that, it might explain something. I make no promises, however.”

“Which is where I come in,” Expat says. “This synth is receiving some kind of signal, but it’s encoded and I can’t decipher it. I think something’s damaged but I couldn’t figure out how to fix it.”

Madison’s gaze flicks to Uno. “Bring it here, then.”

Uno steps forward on Expat’s command and waits.

Madison looks it over. “What frequency is the signal on?”

“460.3.”

“Unit. Route audio from radio frequency 460.3 to loudspeakers.”

A garbled, screeching mess plays from Uno’s speakers. Around the room, people cringe.

Expat yells, “Unit, mute!”

The sound cuts off.

Madison rivals X6-88’s poise; she doesn’t bat an eyelash. “I’ll need a radio and a screwdriver.”

Kaelyn donates her own screwdriver to the cause and Virgil fetches the radio from his shack without complaint. Madison orders Uno to sit to give her easier access to its cranium, and Valentine grunts softly when Madison opens the casing without ceremony. After doing the same to the radio, she pokes around in Uno’s skull with her tongue between her teeth.

“Aha! Hmm, that won’t be easily… but if I…”

She tears into the radio next, unplugging several wires and grabbing some spare wiring from a drawer in her desk. With her jury-rigged extension cable, she plugs it into Uno’s cranium.

“Unit, play audio from radio frequency 460.3 to loudspeakers using protocol IEP-243.”

“ _Attention all Institute personnel. This is Director Ayo. We have secured a new home for our people. You are to travel to the following coordinates immediately. Director Ayo out.”_

Madison’s sigh sounds like a hiss. “Director Ayo? That little…”

“ _42.453996, -71.239770.”_

Kaelyn scrambles to write it down in Nate’s pip-boy. “You did it! Thank you, Madison. I wasn’t expecting… well, you to help.”

Madison says, dry as a rattling desert wind, “It is quite a surprise, in light of your infiltration and subsequent betrayal of the Institute.”

Expat coughs while Virgil shifts on his feet. Kaelyn concedes the fair hit with an incline of her head.

“Ayo does not have the backing of the directorate to proclaim himself the director,” X6-88 says, startling everyone. “I must remain to protect my charges from death, but he must not be permitted to authorize another attack on Dr Li or any other personnel.”

Madison’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline while over her shoulder, Virgil goes white. It hasn’t been so long since he was hunted by coursers to be comfortable with one speaking of his own volition.

Kaelyn, however, cocks her head. “Ayo was head of the SRB. You answered to him, once. You don’t now?”

“I do not.” X6-88’s face does not twitch, nor do his words catch in his chest, but Kaelyn senses something dangerous in his tone.

“Well, glad to hear it.” She draws in a breath. With the answer she needs, she’s already burning to move. “I need to find my husband, so you stay safe here. All of you.”

Before Madison can dismiss them, X6-88 says, “You need such well-wishes more than I.”

—

The coordinates lead them to a familiar suburb, but it doesn’t click until Kaelyn sees The Smiling Mirelurk with its brahmin trough out the front. For the first time, Kaelyn notices a large antennae poking up from the diner roof. “That’s the source of the signal.”

No wonder the Institute arranged for the raiders to bring her here.

Valentine asks, “What about that diner? If we take another poke around there, we might find a trail to follow. They’re using this as a stopover unless the Institute is hiding in the basement.”

Before anything else, they search for the Railroad watcher; they find a lone scavver several blocks away in a garage-turned-home base.

“Hold it,” he says. “None of you has a Geiger counter, do you?”

Two agents chime in unison: “Mine is in the shop.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Damn. Name’s Brady. What’s your business here?”

Kaelyn asks, “You’ve been watching this place for how long?”

“Two weeks. Monitoring who comes and goes. This sits on a trade route, so there are a fair number of caravans, but there’s no way to tell which ones are innocent and which ones aren’t. I’ve been passing the information on. Why, there a problem?”

“My husband was recently kidnapped by the Institute. Along with a boy about ten years old.” She can’t say _son_ , but she can’t say _child synth_ , either.

Brady grunts as he scratches his graying whiskers. “Got a description for either of them? Didn’t notice anyone being dragged in chains, but kidnappers have all sorts of tricks.”

Kaelyn fights a shiver. She gives their descriptions, but Brady only shakes his head. “Didn’t notice them, I’m afraid. Doesn’t mean they weren’t smuggled through here, though.”

“Right.” She turns her attention to the little diner, and the caravan at this moment plodding down the street to hitch the brahmin in the parking lot. “Then it’s time to pay them another visit. Thanks, Brady.”

“Stay safe, you lot.” With that, he slides back into his position to watch.

They approach the diner just as the caravan is leaving, the workers’ banter carrying down the street while they check all their wares are still attached to their brahmin.

Kaelyn, Expat and Valentine enter the diner. Expat takes a thorough look around, likely seeking some indication that these are their people who’ve taken up here. An unfamiliar man is behind the counter, and his gaze slides across the group without sticking on Expat. Either they didn’t know each other in the Institute, or Expat has gone native enough to be unrecognizable.

“Welcome!” he cries. “Any news on your travels?”

Kaelyn pauses a moment to consider whether she should play her hand yet. “Heard about a commotion at Med-Tek Research. But it was a Goodneighbor rumor, so who knows how good it is.”

“I wouldn’t trust anything to come out of that rat hole,” he says smoothly, and it’s difficult to tell if he means it, or if he knows more than he’s telling.

The door to the kitchen swings open, admitting a woman with frizzy red hair secured out of her face. She stops dead when she spots the strangers.

“Hey there,” Kaelyn says, trying to place her face, in case this woman recognizes her and is about to betray her identity.

The woman just stares at her with a wooden expression until the shopkeeper snaps, “You’ve got work to do, now get back to the kitchen!” He turns back to meet Kaelyn’s arched eyebrow with a sheepish chuckle.”That’s just— just Lisa. She doesn’t like strangers, so I must ask you don’t approach her.”

The name rings a bell. Kaelyn watches frizzy curls bounce as she hurries away. “Sure. I wouldn’t want to make her uncomfortable.”

Valentine throws Kaelyn a suddenly urgent look, but their tongues are bound in the presence of an Institute spy. Whatever it is, she can’t decipher his meaning.

Another duo of travelers enter the diner and order lunch, so Kaelyn retreats to one of the corner booths. She and Expat position themselves so they can’t be seen from the bar. Expat touches Kaelyn’s leg under the table and mouths _I know him._

When their drinks arrive, they eat from their own supply instead. They wait until the other patrons leave before making their own exit, making sure to smile back at the the shopkeeper’s jaunty call to return soon.

 _Sooner than you realize,_ Kaelyn thinks. The travelling duo have long since left; the parking lot is empty. After a quiet, urgent discussion, she leads the way to the back of the establishment, taking a winding route around the block, and jimmies open the lock to the back door. No one posted a guard, so it’s too easy.

Expat peeks into the kitchen and holds up three fingers. Kaelyn motions for Valentine to help them subdue the people in there while she prowls to the front of the diner. No one is behind the counter anymore, but she finds a staircase that leads upstairs. A tiny corridor has three doors: a bathroom, an office converted into a crude bedroom, and another office still being used for its intended purpose.

Typing away at a terminal is the shopkeeper.

By some miracle, the door doesn’t creak when Kaelyn squeezes through. She ghosts across the floorboards, a silent predator, and he only realizes, too late, when he hears the click of Deliverer’s safety being switched off.

The time for subterfuge is over.

Kaelyn swivels his chair to face her. Briskly, as if she isn’t pointing a gun at a man, she says, “The Institute’s new hideout. Where is it?”

His eyes widen; his fear is real. “Don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Liar,” she accuses.

His gaze darts past her shoulder. “G3-76! Initiate hostilities!”

Kaelyn whirls at the pounding beat of feet on the stairs, Deliverer raised to aim at—

Lisa. Synths are stronger than humans on average, as Glory had taught her. She’d also showed her how to find weak spots that work on synths as well as humans. Kaelyn darts forward, her gun hand striking the inside of Lisa’s forearm while her free hand wrenches the muzzle of Lisa’s pistol off-target. Lisa’s grip slackens for a split second, long enough for Kaelyn to knock the firearm from her grasp.

What Kaelyn doesn’t anticipate is Lisa charging at her to use the same trick. Pain drives up her hand and Deliverer goes flying, to be snatched up by Lisa’s superhuman reflexes.

A moment later, Kaelyn is staring down the barrel of her own gun.

At that moment, she remembers. “You’re Roge’s wife, aren’t you? Lisa. They replaced her with a synth. You.”

Lisa falters, the pistol in her grip wavering. Lowering.

“G3-76, don’t listen to her! Shoot her, now!”

Lisa takes a step back, the muscles in her arms tightening, finger squeezing on the trigger—

“G3-76, recall code lamda six-five cumulus!”

Lisa slumps, her eyes blank. Expat reaches the top of the stairs and claims Deliverer from Lisa’s yielding grasp. They return it to Kaelyn and draw their own pistol. With two guns pointing in his general vicinity, the shopkeeper realizes he’s lost any advantage.

“How’s it downstairs?” Kaelyn asks.

“Under control,” Expat answers. “Valentine found rope.” They produce a coil of electrical wiring that is definitely not rope, but can secure the shopkeeper in his chair all the same. “Now, Leo. Long time, no see. You’re going to tell us where your group of the Institute survivors are hiding.”

A frown flickers across his face, at odds with the tight lines of fear around his mouth. “How— how do you know that?”

They smile, a grim, rueful thing. “You don’t recognize me?”

His eyes narrow, raking a critical eye over them from head to toe, and finding nothing to spark recognition or to eliminate the contempt from his gaze. “Should I know some dirty waster?”

They sigh; drawing out the suspense is no longer fun. “Assistant Sade Bridgeman of Advanced Systems. Now, if you aren’t going to tell my friend here, you can tell me. Where are the rest of our people hiding?”

His eyes bug out. “You can’t be… why? Why are you helping them?”

Kaelyn takes a step forward, raising Deliverer to aim at his sternum. “We asked you a question. The Institute’s location. Now.”

He tries to spit, but it lands on his own knee. “I’m not telling you anything!”

“How many surfacers did you kidnap, and they told you the same thing during interrogation?” Kaelyn’s laugh is low and hard. “How many of them cracked in the end? They were wastelanders, used to harsh living. You? You’re soft.”

He swallows and tries to shift in his seat, only to freeze when Kaelyn slides her finger inside the trigger guard.

“Have you ever been shot before? No, I didn’t think so. What people usually don’t realize is how survivable bullet wounds are. They rarely kill someone instantly. It hurts, you know?”

“You’re going to have to shoot me,” he grits out.

Downstairs, Valentine is guarding the other prisoners. Part of her wishes he’s up here; his interrogation skills are superior to hers. The other part is glad he’s not here to witness this. Kaelyn takes another measured step forward—only for a tap on her arm to halt her.

Expat cocks an eyebrow at the terminal. “If he won’t spill his secrets, that thing might.”

Oh. Right. If Kaelyn wasn’t so consumed by vengeance, she might have noticed that herself.

Sloppy.

“On him. I’m going to check the terminal.” She only lowers Deliverer when Expat has their pistol trained on him.

The terminal is unlocked, saving her the hassle of hacking it, and in the middle of a requisitions list. Skimming the items yields nothing untoward, so she backs out to the main menu and scans the directories. _Progress Reports_ sounds promising, so she starts with the latest entry.

_Reclaiming rogue synths would be far easier with a courser. I know their remaining numbers are dangerously low, but this is what they were created for. We could substantially increase our yield of returned synths. The radio signal to recall any wayward personnel has helped, but you know we need more laborers to rebuild._

_Michaelson hates the sky, and while I don’t disagree, it’s disruptive for him to remain inside at all hours. As our most recent transfer from the vault—_

Vault.

The Institute crawled into a _vault._

Kaelyn wheels on the shopkeeper. “Which one? Where? How recently did you move in?”

He grits his teeth and looks away. Expats eyebrows are halfway to their hairline.

Stubborn.

So Kaelyn prowls in a circle around his chair on silent feet. “It can’t be Vault 111. I was just there. Can’t be 95, because I recently cleaned that one out. That leaves 114 and 75. Which is it?”

“You’re going to kill me anyway, so what’s the point?’

She’s always heard that torture is an ineffective interrogation method. That victims will say anything to make the pain go away. That good interrogators never lay a hand on the person they’re interviewing.

That doesn’t mean she’s not tempted to pistol whip him.

“Death is too easy. I save it for people who are actually a threat.” Drawing in a thin breath through her nose, she again clamps down on the rising tide of resentment.

_Shaun asked you to protect them. But they stole Nate and synth Shaun._

Beside her, Expat chimes, “All you have to do is tell me where your new base is located, and we’re done. You comply with me, and I’ll tell the others to go easy on you. You were just doing what you thought you have to for our people, right?”

A long sigh, like the death spiral of an exhausted bird, signals his defeat. “Vault 75.”

Kaelyn blinks. However unexpected, Expat played into Good Cop, Bad Cop—and it worked. No torture required. A part of her is disquieted at how close she came, but there’ll be time to dissect that later.

It makes sense the Institute would hole up in a vault. Given how much they loathe the surface, why would they stay when they can find a new underground lair?

“Thank you,” Expat says.

“How could you betray your own people like this? For _them?”_ He spits the last word. “She destroyed our home!”

Expat shifts their weight under the scrutiny, their mouth pulling tight. They’re silent for so long Kaelyn thinks they won’t answer at all, but then they say, “Father was wrong when he said the surface is dead. There’s a future to be had here, and I’m going to be a part of it.”

“Traitor,” he spits.

Their shoulders slump, eyes opaque.

Kaelyn touches their shoulder. “Remember Brian Virgil. The Institute doesn’t allow expatriates.”

They shake themselves out. “Now what?” They look to the doorway, where Lisa remains inactive. Chagrin flashes across their face as they wring the hem of their shirt. “Uh, sorry. I just didn’t want her hurting anybody.”

Kaelyn draws in a breath. Looks over the disabled synth slumped in the doorway. It will always be eerie to see someone standing, unconscious yet standing. Inhuman. “Just— just wake her up.”

“Leo, if you order her to do anything, I’m going to feed you to bloodbugs.” With his affirmative squeak, they turn their attention to Lisa and wet their lips. “G3-76, reinitialize code lamda six-five cumulus.”

Lisa’s eyes suddenly focus again as she stands straight. Her face remains eerily blank, though her gaze darts to Expat.

Expat nudges Kaelyn, their eyes averted.

Kaelyn gently takes Lisa’s elbow. “Come on. We’re getting you out of here.”

Leaving the shopkeeper tied in the chair, Kaelyn leads the way down the stairs to the diner front, where they meet up with Valentine, leaning in the kitchen doorway with a cigarette. “Find what we need?”

“Vault 75. That’s where we need to go.”

A scowl creases his face. “Outta every cave they coulda picked…”

“I know. Let’s go already.” To Expat, Kaelyn says, “Go tell our friend down the road what’s happened here.”

With a quick nod and one wayward glance at Lisa, they bolt down the stairs for Brady’s hideout. With Expat now out of sight, Kaelyn hopes it might ease some of the tension from Lisa’s shoulders. It doesn’t.

Kaelyn asks, gently, “Why did you leave?”

Her eyes are dead. “Because this unit was recalled and reassigned.”

“You aren’t a thing, Lisa, and you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”

“That is not this unit’s designation. It is G3-76.”

“If that’s what you prefer, then.” Kaelyn looks her over, wondering how to get through to a synth that doesn’t think she can be freed. Most of the synths she’s known have embraced their far-flung hope of freedom with heart and head. “You know, Roge asked us to find out what happened to you. He’s sick with worry.”

Her expression flickers, but she doesn’t respond.

“You can go back to him, if you want. If it’s safe. He’d be glad to see you.”

G3-76 flinches. “Roge…” For the first time, a ghost of an emotion stirs her voice. “He loves his wife. Very much.”

And if he discovers his beloved wife was snatched and replaced with a synth, who knows what he’ll do.

Kaelyn says, “I’m not going to send you back if you don’t want to go, or if it’s not safe for you if the truth comes out, but it’s an option if you want it.”

“We’ll get you someplace safe, let you clear your head,” Valentine says. “You decide later where you want to go from here.”

They follow Expat’s path to Brady’s garage to plan their next move. Escorting a synth to a safehouse will take up even more time. The only one Expat knows of is Mercer, and it’s at least half a day’s journey just to get there. Kaelyn wavers, torn between her duty to this synth and her need to continue hunting.

Expat too recognizes the situation. “If you don’t need me, I can take her. Fill the others in on what’s happened here.” Before they leave, Expat touches her shoulder. “Good luck.”

It’s almost strange to consider an Institute-scientist-turned-Railroad-agent now offers her this. “Thank you.”

Leaving Brady to watch the prisoners they left tied up in the diner seems risky, but Kaelyn accepts his assurances that he can handle it at face value. She and Valentine set off without further ado, capitalising on what few hours of daytime are left.

Night does not bring relief. More than once they have to detour around the drag of feet on asphalt or raiders’ whoops. There’s no time for an engagement, and she can’t afford to waste bullets. The darkness that drapes over Boston is thick and cloying, thanks to cloud cover that blots out the stars, and despite Kaelyn’s best efforts, she trips more than once.

Valentine reaches out to keep her from sticking her foot in a gutter. His eyes blaze like twin stars. “I’m game if you want to keep moving. Course, I’m not the one who benefits from a good night’s rest.”

Not an option.

A short while later, under the faint glow of a moon that hides behind Boston’s rickety skyscrapers, Valentine turns the heat of his gaze onto her. Unlike the silver orb behind him, his eyes are hot with worry and something darker. “This is why you didn’t want to stick your neck out again in the first place, isn’t it?”

“What I want doesn’t matter any more.”

It should probably scare her, how easily she’s fallen back into bad habits. Nate told her to stop, but he’s gone. Again.

Exhaustion forces Kaelyn to take refuge in an empty basement as the first fierce beams of sunlight sweep the city. Valentine loans her his lap as a pillow, and she wakes at midday with an ache in her hip and enough energy for fresh fear.

Her supplies have dwindled to two cans of purified water, a box of snack cakes, and fifty-seven caps. Valentine is more worried about it than she is.

“Don’tcha think we should slow down a moment and resupply? I can live off air. You, not so much.”

Kaelyn shrugs him off. “We can scavenge while we search.”

“Sure,” he says, deceptively mild, and his easy agreement pulls her up short. “Except that’ll take longer than stopping by the nearest merchant.”

They have to detour to Mercer to resupply, and Kaelyn’s ready to tear her hair out. The safehouse doesn’t have an extensive supplies, but Kaelyn and Valentine take what ammo Uncle can spare. Kaelyn also grabs a few grenades, just in case. Once they’re on their way again, she frequently consults with Nate’s pip-boy to ensure they’re heading in the right direction. The last thing she needs is to end up in the wrong place. At last, Malden creeps up on them, countryside giving way to brick buildings.

“No more wasting time,” Kaelyn breathes.

How many have day had passed? Eight? Too many.

They circle the neighborhood seeking Malden Middle School. Of all the buildings on the street, it fared the worst. Its bricks have long crumbled into a giant pile, exposing three stories’ worth of classrooms to the elements.

Kaelyn taps Valentine’s shoulder and points to the blue crates with their Vault-Tec brand. “That’s the place.”

“You picked me up in Vault 114. Just how many of these things are out there?”

“It raises the question where Vaults 112 and 113 are. And what happened to them.”

He grimaces. “They don’t exactly have a good track record, do they?”

Kaelyn snorts and picks her way over the rubble, trying to ignore the broken child-sized desks. The blackboard dusty with atomic particles rather than chalk. At least there aren’t any small skeletons strewn about the ruin. The Great War had started and ended on a Saturday.

Entering the basement, they find their way to the entrance. The Gunners’ faded white logos still decorate the walls, matching the bleached skulls strewn about, presumably from the ousted Gunners themselves. Small blessings, there are no Gunners here this time; Kaelyn had been hired to clean them out months ago.

The 75 imprinted on the vault door turns her stomach. Oh, she remembers this place. How fitting the Institute found the most depraved vault to establish themselves in.

Leaving Valentine in a decent hiding spot, she treads on soft feet to the door controls. Using Nate’s pip-boy, she primes the activator and hits the button. There’s no way to conceal the vault opening, but she can conceal herself. Kaelyn wastes no time hitting her stealth boy and scurrying away to a good position with her sniper rifle.

The wait is short. A trio of first gen synths investigate the opening and walk right into their crossfire.

From there, they descend into Vault 75.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing, especially with the fight scenes!
> 
> **CW for mentions of reproductive violence.**

Of all the vaults Kaelyn has descended into, Vault 75 is the worst. In between fights with the resident Gunners, she had, as always, caved in to curiosity. As always, she had regretted it. Vault 75 admitted only children to subject them to an inhumane training regimen, only to release them to fight on the surface when they became of age.

Then she had found the genomics laboratory—and she learned that she’d been wrong after all. They’d harvested the children for their genome, then culled their subjects.

So it’s with a sick amusement she notes that the Institute chose another subterranean nightmare as their new roost.

The exit zone is so similar to Vault 111’s that Kaelyn double takes, glancing up at the _Welcome Home_ sign to affirm she hasn’t stepped into a memory. But instead of a corridor that leads to a place of ice and lies, there’s an elevator in its stead. From memory, it leads to the secret science wing of the vault, while the other door leads to the residential wing. Kaelyn hits the button to send the elevator down and retreats with Valentine to the nearby admissions office while they wait.

Sure enough, the elevator returns with a trio of synths, which are soon dispatched. Now slightly more confident there won’t be a band of synths pointing guns at them the moment the doors open, they take the elevator down.

The wide maintenance tunnel is indeed empty, but metal feet clomp nearby on the broken tiles. Spying an adjacent alcove, Valentine pulls Kaelyn behind a stack of crates, and they wait for the sound to pass. The rust is so thick it coats her tongue with its bloody taste. Valentine cocks his head, listening, and holds up two skeletal fingers.

Kaelyn dares to peek around the corner to see the patrol step out of sight. Valentine makes to stand, but Kaelyn tugs on his sleeve. With Deacon’s lessons in the forefront of her mind, she waits for another twenty minutes, timing the patrol rounds with Nate’s pip-boy.

They only have one chance at this.

She’s worked enough kidnapping cases with Valentine to know hostages are a tricky business; once the Institute realizes they’re here, they’ll be racing the clock before someone threatens to harm Nate. Synths clunk by in fifteen-minute intervals, and with Valentine’s keen hearing, they’ll have enough warning to find cover again.

Of Kaelyn’s memories of this place, none involve the vault’s layout. The only one she knows like the back of her hand is 111. What she does remember is that Vault 75’s interior decor once matched the post-apocalyptic disrepair of the Commonwealth. But now the floors are swept and the corners are free of debris piles. Evidently, the new tenants are more concerned with cleanliness than the Gunners had been.

Not long after, Kaelyn and Valentine spy a woman taking a lunch tray to a nearby office in the screening zone, and a man in a white and black uniform meets her at the door. There’s a flash of black behind him, and a courser stands over his shoulder. The man waves his hand, and the courser collects the tray from the runner. As she turns to leave, her blank expression never gives way.

Not a human after all, but a synth.

Waiting until she’s out of earshot, Kaelyn and Valentine retreat to a dim alcove to plan how they want to proceed. Kaelyn might otherwise be tempted to override the lock and move on, but there’s at least one courser in there. Black uniforms signify SRB workers, so he’s probably manning some security checkpoint.

There’s no sneaking up on a courser, so they’ll have to be as quick as possible and hope no one hears.

They move as a team. Valentine ducks to the door controls while Kaelyn primes the grenades. She inclines her head and Valentine opens the door. Kaelyn only glimpses the scientist glance up, the courser’s head tilt ever so slightly—then the grenades are rolling across the floor, pinless, and the door slams smoothly shut.

They duck into the alcove as someone shouts—their voice lost in the muffled roar of the explosion. It is a testament to Vault-Tec’s architecture that they feel only the faintest of tremors, and when Kaelyn looks to the door it appears unblemished without the slightest dent. She draws Deliverer and Valentine draws his own pistol.

When Valentine opens the door, devastation lies within. The room lies in ruins, the desk shattered, the walls charred and needled with shrapnel. Kaelyn forces herself to scan the room and discovers one body slumped against the back wall. The white half of the scientist’s lab coat is bathed in red, his legs missing and body charred.

But she doesn’t see the courser.

She barely registers the open security locker before Valentine shouts. She’s wrenched off her feet, thrown into the room as cyan flashes ignite the air, ozone cleansing the burnt stench. Valentine shields her, turning sharply to return fire on their attacker.

Kaelyn hears the courser’s footsteps and he appears in her line of sight, illuminated by the flash of his pistol. Valentine curses, pushing her one way while he feints the other. Blue lasers fire in Valentine’s wake and Kaelyn raises Deliverer, firing shots in rapid succession.

The bullets strike the courser across his chest, but he does little more than grunt, each shot absorbed by his armored coat. He bares his teeth, turning his pistol on her.

Kaelyn snarls back, willing her hands to steady as she aims for his head.

A gunshot fires, and the laser meant for her singes the wall instead. When Kaelyn fires, she hits her mark.

A single shot to the head and the courser drops to the ground.

Valentine blows a long breath as Kaelyn lowers Deliverer, noting the bullet embedded in the courser’s arm. If not for Valentine’s quick intervention, she might have been ashed.

“You all right?” Valentine asks, glancing towards her.

Kaelyn nods.

Two minutes until the next patrol.

They jam the door on their way out and bolt to another hiding place, hunkering down to wait, but the next patrol comes and goes without checking the room.

Two doors offshoot from the screening area. Kaelyn halts, jittery in the middle of the room under the lights, and looks between the two. “Security or the atrium?”

“More likely to hold prisoners in the security wing, but whoever’s running this dog and pony show is likely holed up in the Overseer’s office.”

Kaelyn makes a snap decision. “Nate first.”

Down the corridor, a staircase leads up a level. At the top, Kaelyn peeks around the door and pulls back.

Two red-uniformed people stand in the room, while a blue-uniformed woman hunkers down in front of a bay of machinery in the corner. Holding her breath, Kaelyn listens to the woman pronounce the machinery completely dead, earning grumbles from her cohorts.

“Can’t believe this is the most advanced facility in the Commonwealth. Primitives, the lot of them.”

“I know, Ivan. But we’re reclaiming more by the day. As much as I dislike relying on surface technology, we can reclaim enough materials to rebuild.”

Kaelyn’s finger slides through the trigger guard as the trio say their goodbyes. Footsteps echo away from the door. She waits until their steps fade to silence, like the dying ripples of pebbles being tossed into a pond, then dares to peek around the door frame again. Kaelyn steps inside and rounds the corner, only to freeze when it opens up to a cavernous room with staircases leading down on either side. A pillar in the center of the room blocks her view of the other side.

Several panels of thick glass are embedded into the floor, and Kaelyn has a vague recollection of observation windows looking down on the training rooms where Vault-Tec tortured children in the name of science.

Stepping up to the edge, Kaelyn peers down. She recoils.

Twenty feet below, the room is full of synths. Gen threes. She knows this because most don’t wear Institute uniforms; they’re dressed as wastelanders, dirtied and disillusioned. Some prowl the confines of their prison, while others stand with blank faces, resigned to their fate.

Kaelyn’s gut clenches. Doing a quick head count, she guesses there must be at least thirty in there.

One of the doors opens to admit a courser and another SRB officer. If it hadn’t already been evident that these are synths, their reaction to the courser confirms it. They know to fear the woman with her black coat and dark sunglasses and blank face.

The scientist points at one of the synths prowling the room and the courser pounces on him. Everyone else shies away as the courser puts him into an arm lock and marches him back to the door. He doesn’t go quietly, kicking and struggling and shouting. The glass is soundproof, but whatever he screams rattles the synths. It’s eerie to watch his mouth move, eyes wide, yet hear nothing.

After the doors shut behind the struggling synth, the tension remains in the room, visible even from this lofty perch.

Kaelyn draws in a breath. “If we find a way to unlock the doors, can they fight or will it just get them killed?”

“If the Institute went to these lengths to catch ’em, they won’t put them down unless they have to. Too valuable to be tossed in the trash.” But Valentine’s lip curls as he says it.

“What the—?!”

Around the pillar is another door—and a scientist stands in the doorway, gaping. The one called Ivan.

“Dammit,” Valentine growls.

It’s usually distasteful to gun down noncombatants, but Kaelyn drops the scientist as he turns to run back inside, and darts to the pillar for cover, brushing back-to-back with Valentine. They both lean out to shoot as two gen ones prowl out of the lab.

The synths open fire, forcing Kaelyn and Valentine to recoil amid a storm of laser beams. Just audible beneath the zap of the energy weapons, Kaelyn hears the clunk of metallic feet advancing towards them.

A voice rings out; “By the order of the Institute, you must die.”

“Not if I can help it!” Valentine leans out and fires, giving Kaelyn the opening she needs. She takes a deep breath, heart pounding as she raises Deliverer and aims from her cover. Two clean shots to the head of the foremost synth.

Sparks fly from its shattered cranium as it slumps, and she turns her sights on the remaining synth still crouched in the doorway, Ivan dead at its feet. Within moments she and Valentine finish it with a hail of bullets.

Kaelyn sucks in deep breaths, loading Deliverer with a new clip as she follows Valentine from cover. Valentine cocks his head, and his golden eyes dart to the other staircase.

“We’ve got more of ’em incoming.”

They try the door behind them, but it leads into an office with dark observation windows. There are no other exits.

“This is where we put our backs to the wall,” Valentine says, crouching on one side of the doorway.

Kaelyn crouches on the other side and nods, her blood pulsing.

They can’t afford to fail now.

The synth patrol enter the other room, their feet clacking against the glass panes. Kaelyn risks a glance and counts two more synths, their waxen skin identifying them as gen twos. They’re both armed with institute rifles.

One of the synths moves towards the prone body still sparking on the glass while the other moves straight for their doorway, rifle raised and eyes glowing. Kaelyn draws back and sees Valentine ready his pistol, his expression grim.

“Destruction of fellow synth verified,” a robotic voice intones from the other room, just as the synth crosses the threshold. Kaelyn and Valentine fire at the same time.

The synth’s head explodes in a shower of sparks, the rifle clattering from its prone hands as it drops to the floor like a cut marionette.

Together they lean around the doorway and open fire on the remaining synth. Numerous bullets riddle its torso as it stands, and it shuts down without having fired a single shot.

After the last synth falls, Valentine reaches out to snag Deliverer’s barrel, its residual heat harmless to his metal fingers. Forcing her gun down, he says, “We don’t kill any plainclothes we don’t have to. Guards are a different matter, but I don’t want to see that again, all right?”

“I didn’t hear you complaining during the Institute uprising,” she grinds out.

“Because we didn’t kill anyone we didn’t have to, or have you forgotten that?”

“Look around you, Nick! This is what these people did with that second chance!”

“And you’re going to kill every last one of them this time, is that right?”

She grits her teeth, looks away.

A metal finger curls under her chin to force her to meet his hot yellow gaze. “We find your man, free those synths down there, and shut this place down. Without unnecessary death. You’ll regret it otherwise.”

Damn him for being right.

“Fine. Now we need a plan, and fast.”

Searching the lab, the first thing to catch their attention is the large observation windows that look down on the eerie underground street used for combat simulations. Another lie to sell the story the children would be prepared for surface conditions. There are no exits besides the one behind them.

Dead end.

From the modified setup below, it’s likely the coursers have used it as a training ring. Three coursers are in the middle of a training exercise; apparently, no one has hit a vault-wide alert yet. Kaelyn races to the control terminal to lock the doors and disable the speakers. It won’t stop them once they realize something is wrong, but it will slow them down.

While Valentine covers the door, Kaelyn scans the terminal logs for anything of interest.

_REQUISITIONS LOG_

_D2-33: acquired from Railroad checkpoint._

_E1-99: acquired from a caravan. Note: was unaware subject is a synth. Likely Railroad interference._

_C8-04: acquired from Railroad checkpoint._

_M7-97: acquired from Cambridge. Note: required triple the number of guards to subdue. Observe carefully. Recommend fast-tracking subject’s processing._

_Z5-20: acquired from Mass Pike Interchange. Note: subject identifies as Minutemen; they may investigate this unit’s absence._

_Subject Beta: acquired from Med-Tek Research._

She feels sick reading. “They have him. Let’s get that cell block open.”

“Then we beat a hasty escape, but it won’t be easy with all those folks in tow.”

“We’ll figure something out.” She gains access to the remote door controls for the cells below and opens them all.

Back in the observation room, the synths below stare at the suddenly open doors. A few have already taken off, while others have clumped together to talk.

Kaelyn leads the way down the stairs, only to remember that the science and residential wings of the vault are separate when they arrive not in the cell block but an office suite renovated into quarters for Institute personnel. Four of them cower under their beds, no doubt having heard the firefight upstairs, their white uniforms giving them away as easily as fluorescent signs.

Valentine makes a beeline for the door—no, the control panel beside it. “You can stay here and think about what you’ve done.” He slams the door shut and fiddles with the lock. “That’ll keep ’em out of our hair. Or your hair and my hat.”

They beat a hasty exit, following the sign on the corridor labeled _TO MAINTENANCE_. Down the stairs, the next section changes from narrow walls to a low, sloping ceiling with red walls and exposed cabling. Said cabling has been modified, with twice the number running along the right wall and into a closed room. The door springs open at their approach, revealing a workshop with another door in the far wall. One that’s guarded by two stationary synths.

The gen twos turn as one to the intruders. “Halt. You are not authorized to be in the restricted zo—”

Kaelyn shoots the one that’s talking, pinning it against the wall with a railway spike. That holds it in place, but doesn’t kill it. Valentine shoots the other and it drops.

“Hostiles detected. The Institute demands your complia—”

Drawing Deliverer, Kaelyn stands just out of the range of its baton to put three rounds in its skull.

She and Valentine trade looks, and he tilts his chin to the bodies. “They were guarding this for a reason. Maybe we should find out why.”

Kaelyn guards Valentine while he hacks the terminal, then backs into the room—and bumps into him, who’s stopped dead.

“Would ya look at that,” he says.

Kaelyn turns to find the cables converging on a cylindrical contraption build out of welded metal panels on the far side of the room, big enough for several people to step into. Several cables slither along the floor from the construction to a large control panel.

“I knew it!” she hisses. “I knew they had a relay.”

Valentine nudges her. “We’ve got our exit strategy, then. Provided we can find our way back.”

They exit the room and continue through the belly of the vault for the unobtrusive door that connects to the residential zone. They discover, to their surprise, it’s only a few corridors away, and guarded by another two synths. After dispatching them, Valentine hacks the terminal to find the new locking protocol is to cut power from the doors entirely.

After restoring power, the doors slide open on both sides of the antechamber, now labeled _Acquisition_ _Processing_.

“No dust,” Valentine rumbles. “Interesting. And that desk has seen use recently.”

The desk in question holds a terminal and stacks of paper, along with a security baton. Kaelyn steps towards the terminal, then the sound laser fire echoes down the corridor.

Trading a quick look, they run towards the firefight. It goes silent just before they round the corner.

A burly man crouches by one of the fallen synths, stripping its weapons and armor. His head snaps up and Kaelyn freezes under the combined power of a laser rifle and his heavy-browed scowl pointed in her direction.

Surprise and recognition flit across his face.

She blinks. “Danse?”

His jaw sets. “ _You.”_

Kaelyn holds up her hands, but he makes no move to shoot her. Yet. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but right now the Institute’s after both of us.”

Danse, however, is staring at Valentine. As Danse narrows his eyes, Kaelyn holds up a beseeching hand. “He’s friendly. Are you going to turn down another gun on our side?”

His eyes flash, but he subsides. “It would be… tactically inadvisable,” he admits, lowering his rifle. “But if it shows any signs of betrayal, I will destroy it. What’s your mission here?”

“The Institute kidnapped my husband. Seems it wasn’t just him they went after. You, and the synths too.” She almost wants to ask how they got their hands on a Brotherhood Paladin, but then, the answer is in their very name—the Brotherhood is most efficient as an army. Alone, they can be overwhelmed. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“No.” Danse pauses, eyes narrowing. “He isn’t a synth, is he?”

“What? No, he’s human. You didn’t see him in the cell block, did you?”

Danse frowns. “I did not, but he could have been in another cell.”

“Can you show us where the cells are? They know we’re here now, so Nate’s in more danger than ever.”

“I will.” Danse straightens his shoulders. “If you intend to stay and fight, I’ll remain with you. You’ll need help if you expect to fight them and make it out the other side. And I have every intention of making the Institute pay for their crimes.”

Kaelyn snorts quietly, but now isn’t the time for an argument about her competence. “You and me both. Let’s go.”

Danse takes the lead, prowling down the corridor. With its wide red walls and low-hanging ceiling, it feels like the weight of the earth above has warped the vault into the dim lair of a monster.The alcoves are filled with crates of scrap, but there’s a door at the end of the corridor. A new label has been stuck beside the door, which reads _Synth Processing_.

“This… isn’t the correct way,” Danse says. “Whoever built this vault did not design it for ease of navigation.”

Since that’s as close as a Brotherhood Paladin will ever come to admitting he’s lost, Kaelyn doesn’t tease.

They’re about to turn around when they hear voices in the room.

They take up positions beside the door and Kaelyn hits the controls at a nod from Valentine. Two scientists from Advanced Systems and one from the SRB are working on a device in the center of the room. They look up at the announcing hiss of the door, and their expectant looks slide away to shock, then anger. All of them go for weapons, but Danse shoots down one before she can even unholster her pistol. A laser grazes Kaelyn’s shoulder, but she ignores it as she leans out from cover to shoot. Without any kind of cover, the remaining scientists fall quickly.

Valentine scowls but says nothing.

The machine spears out from the center of the room. Its silhouette is familiar, like the spines of a deep sea monster arching out from the depths of the ocean. The materials may be different, cruder, but it’s too distinct to be lost to the recesses of memory. The machine barely qualifies as a chair, even if it follows the skeleton of some kind of lounger, despite the metal prongs that align with the spine of whoever is strapped down on it.

Valentine makes a noise low in his throat, the sound tinny. “Stuff of nightmares, that is.”

Kaelyn winces. “There was one of these, or something like it, in the SRB. They used it to wipe the synths’ memories.” She prays they never used it on Valentine, too.

Valentine’s lip curls. “Guess that explains why their gen twos have been poking around scrap heaps. Already trying to reclaim their former glory.”

“Not just that. They’ve been hitting the Railroad and taking all the synths they can for months. This is how they’ve kept them under control.” She shakes her head. “You’d think they’re utterly clueless as to why someone might overload their reactor in the first place.”

Danse hovers near the door. “There’s nothing here. We should move on.” If not for the fact he’s a career soldier, he almost looks uncomfortable. As it is, he shifts his weight from foot to foot and grips his weapon so tightly the tendons in his hands are as taut as piano wires.

They retreat back the way they came, and this time find the correct staircase down, in part due to the sounds of chaos traveling up the stairwell. Otherwise because they stumble into several synth escapees running away.

“Woah! Don’t shoot!” Valentine’s call, imbued with enough bark of command, is enough for the four synths to lower their weapons.

One of them, a blond man, asks, “Who are you? You… wait. Are you really?”

Aware of Danse watching, she jumps in with, “The one who helped start the rebellion, yes. Where are the other imprisoned synths?”

“The others are too scared to move. But not me. I have to get outta here.”

“Slow down, pal,” Valentine says. “Safety in numbers and all that.”

Kaelyn turns to the door and almost collides with another escapee. The synth reels back and almost falls down the stairs, if not for Kaelyn’s quick reflexes. She stares with wide eyes as Kaelyn ducks around her to trot down the stairs, spurred by the sudden need to find Nate. A dozen synths are clustered in the wing, hesitating on the threshold between their prison and freedom.

“Colonel!” Kaelyn’s head snaps toward the voice; a brown woman with frizzy hair secured in a hasty braid. “I almost gave up on expecting the cavalry to arrive. Genevieve Turay, Commonwealth Minutemen. Never been so glad to see you, ma’am.”

“Glad to help. Can you lead these people out of the vault? How many of them have weapons training?”

She grimaces. “Training might be too strong a word, but most have fired a gun since coming to the surface.”

“Good enough. We’ll find them all weapons and get moving.” Kaelyn glances up to find the ceiling solid gray. Without knowing they’re windows, she’d never suspect.

Genevieve trails behind Kaelyn as she searches the various cells. Nate isn’t in any of them.

Kaelyn runs a hand through her hair. _No. He’s supposed to be here._

“You’re the one who opened the doors?”

“Yeah. Are there any other cells in the block?”

Genevieve nods. “Yeah, but they’re empty. This is the last of us who haven’t already run. I was forming a plan.”

“My husband is in here somewhere. I need to find him.”

“They kidnapped Sergeant Prescott?” Her eyes widen with shock, then harden. “Go find him. I can get these guys to the exit, and cause mayhem on the way out.”

“He’s down here,” Kaelyn says, sharper than she intends. “This is where they bring prisoners.”

Genevieve’s gaze brims with sympathy. “This is where they bring synths.”

“Then where else would they hold a prisoner?”

“I don’t know, but we can look on the way out. We need to hit the exits, fast.”

Kaelyn holds back a noise of frustration. “The entrance will be guarded, so we’re leaving via the relay.”

“The relay? They rebuilt that thing?”

“They did. It’ll be guarded, but it can take us anywhere in the Commonwealth.”

Genevieve nods. “Got your back, Colonel.”

An alarm blares. “ _Warning. Containment breach in Residential Block 22A. Patrols Alpha and Delta to reroute and subdue escapees. Patrol Bravo to secure the exit zone.”_

“We’re out of time!” Valentine says. “Gotta get these folks to the relay on the double!”

It’s almost deja vu to lead another synth uprising through these ancient halls. The repeat of recent history isn’t lost on many of these synths, either. True to Valentine’s prediction, an SRB agent shouts for the old gen synths to use non-lethal force to subdue their gen three models.

Trying to herd a group of panicked quasi-combatants through a firefight is even less fun without power armor. Kaelyn, Valentine and Danse lead the way, firing on those in their path while Genevieve watches their tail, trying to keep the group together. Each synth and scientist that falls provides their group a new weapon, and those most eager to fight are quick to swipe them from the remains.

The door to the maintenance tunnel opens and Kaelyn freezes at the line of synths and scientists lying in wait. Gen twos kneel on the ground in a line with rifles whilst more intersperse the Institute workers with shock batons sparking.

“This is your final warning,” a stone-faced scientist barks, her uniform the black and white of SRB. “Stand down and you will not be harmed.”

Kaelyn isn’t sure who fires first—whether it was Danse or one of the other synths—but a laser streaks through the air and smites the scientist in the chest. She crumples to the ground and all hell breaks loose.

The gen twos and Institute personnel charge forwards, wielding the batons while those with rifles hold their ground. Kaelyn fires the railway rifle, taking out a synth as Valentine opens fire next her.

Around them the tunnel is in chaos. Some gen threes fight alongside them, shooting their captors or fighting to wrest weapons away from them. Still more run, several retreating back the way they came or cowering behind crates.

An Institute worker strikes a synth a few feet away, the shock baton subduing his victim. His eyes meet Kaelyn’s and he charges towards her. She fires her rifle, barely having time to aim and the spike strikes his head, tearing through half his face. The spike strikes the wall behind him as his body slumps to the floor. Amid the growing pool of blood and viscera she spies a piece of white plastic.

That’s when she realizes some of the people they’re fighting aren’t humans—they’re fellow third gen synths.

Movement in the corner of her eye. Kaelyn whirls to see two old gen synths dragging away an escapee who has been disabled. Behind them, there’s a flash of white and black—an SRB agent. Kaelyn’s railway spike tears clean through one synth’s chassis, and a second spike embeds on the shoulder of the other. Their quarry drops, and Kaelyn pushes him to the ground as she rushes by so he won’t catch a stray bullet.

Valentine shoots the wrist of the SRB agent, and he howls, dropping his pistol. Leveraging his distraction, Kaelyn kicks out his leg to send him to the ground. Kaelyn points her Railway Rifle at his face. “Recite the code to revive him. Now!”

“N1-07, reinitialize code ka— kappa three one incus. Please don’t kill me!”

Kaelyn risks a glance sideways to see the synth open his eyes and surge to his feet once he recognizes where he is. She kicks the laser pistol in his direction, and he picks it up with shaky hands. Kaelyn, meanwhile, drags the officer to a closet and locks him in. She yanks her spent railway spikes out of the nonfunctional synths and reloads her rifle.

Along the way they stumble across synths who’ve rushed ahead, some hiding and others meeting resistance from the Institute. Kaelyn’s group guns down some old gen synths cornering a third gen, and their number continues to swell.

They make it through the airlock into the maintenance tunnels before the patrol can seal them in. Danse bulls his way into the thickest of the fight, taking down half the squad on his own. From there, Valentine leads the way to the relay with his accurate memory.

He skids to a halt by the terminal, and with his processing time, he scans the terminal in a few moments. “I think I can figure out how to work this thing.”

Kaelyn waves the synths into the room, bringing up the rear with Danse.

“We need guards on the door,” Danse says. He points to another well-armed synth. “You, with me.”

She glances towards the relay, then nods.

With twenty-odd synths in the room, any free space has vanished. They jitter on their feet, eyes on the relay, some breathing hard. Kaelyn tries to squeeze her way to Valentine, but the relay hums and the crowd moves towards it, dragging her in the current.

A whistle pierces the noise. Genevieve stands by the control panel, laser rifle resting against her shoulder. “We do this orderly, okay! I want you in groups of three—one fighter to two noncombatants!” While the synths arrange themselves as asked, she leans over to Valentine and Kaelyn. “We got a destination in mind?”

“All over,” Valentine says. “Institute’s going to have their work cut out trying to get anyone back.”

“We’ll get them out first, then we’ll bring up the rear.” Genevieve nods. “Good plan.”

There’s no retreat for Kaelyn now. Not without Nate. “I’m not going,” she says. “I still haven’t found my husband.”

“And I’m not going without you,” Valentine adds.

Genevieve glances between them. “Colonel—”

“Listen. When you get out, you need to send someone to Taffington Boathouse. One of the synths might know where it is. Tell the people there what happened; they’re friends.” She drops her voice. “Railroad.”

Her eyes briefly widen, then nods. “Didn’t know you ran with them, Colonel. I’ll bring back an army to tear this place down.”

“Take this. You’ll need it to open the vault door.” Kaelyn tosses Genevieve Nate’s pip-boy.

Genevieve opens her mouth but she’s interrupted by a shout from the doorway, followed by the zap of laser fire. The synths begin to shout and panic, becoming a crush of bodies trying to get away from the door.

Valentine follows Kaelyn as she strides towards it, railway rifle gripped tight in her hands. They’ve come so far. They’re not going to fail now.

She peers around the door frame to see Danse and the armed gen three firing from the cover of defunct terminal bays as gen twos storm the room. Although they’re putting up a valiant effort, Danse proving especially deadly with his aim, it’s clear they’re going to be overwhelmed.

She fires a couple of shots from the doorway before sprinting to the nearest bay, narrowly avoiding a laser in the process. She makes her way to the edge of the bay, takes aim and opens fire. The spikes are devastating, but limited in number.

She tries to make every shot count.

It’s just as she fires the last spike through the arm of a gen two that the coursers arrive.

Two dark blurs surge from the doorway, laying down suppressing fire and moving faster than the gen twos. Kaelyn withdraws, dropping the railway rifle in favour of Deliverer. She takes a moment to gauge her surroundings and sees Valentine leaning from the other end of the bay, his trench coat singed.

Beyond Valentine, she sees the gen three Danse recruited reloading their rifle whilst the Paladin himself fires rapid bursts from his own cover to her right. His fervour in battle marks him as a threat, and in the split seconds that he’s ejecting the spent fusion cell from his rifle, one of the coursers sweeps around the desk to slam the stock of their rifle into his head.

Danse narrowly blocks the strike and the courser turns the muzzle of their rifle upon him. Danse knocks the barrel aside but roars in pain, the laser scorching his side. Before he can recover the courser strikes him across the face and slams him back on the desk, pinning his throat with their rifle.

Kaelyn fires a risky shot and the courser slumps atop of Danse, now nothing more than dead weight. She doesn’t have time to see him recover as a shout comes from Valentine. Kaelyn turns to see the second courser, the gen three recruit prone on the floor behind them as they swing a shock baton at Valentine.

Valentine narrowly avoids the sweep but the courser follows him with another strike. This one lands.

Electricity sparks throughout Valentine’s body and a new kind of fear sets Kaelyn’s nerves alight as she breaks from cover to fire at Nick’s attacker. The courser’s armored coat absorbs the first few bullets and they slam Valentine aside with another strike of their baton before closing in on Kaelyn.

They move quickly, darting in a zig-zag to throw off her aim as she tries to predict their movements. Lasers fire from behind Kaelyn and two smite the courser in the shoulder. Kaelyn fires again, another two shots absorbed by the coat—then a third shot to the back of the head finishes them.

Valentine grimaces as he stands upright—only to duck with a curse as more lasers fly over the desk from the gen twos. They’ve advanced further into the room, taking advantage of the courser’s distraction.

Kaelyn calls, “Fall back, Nick! I’ll cover you!”

He gives Kaelyn and Danse a few seconds to lay down covering fire, then bolts for the door. At the end of the corridor, the door hisses open to admit another synth team, drawing several choice curses from Danse.

“How many left to go?” Kaelyn yells over her shoulder.

“Too many!” Valentine calls back.

Kaelyn and Danse share a grim look.

Danse leans out from his cover to lay down a round of suppressing fire. “If they get past us, those synths are as good as dead!”

“Not an option!” Kaelyn shouts back over the slick peal of laser fire.

Even from this distance, she sees the whites of Danse’s eyes as he glances to the door. “If we seal the door, it might buy them time.”

She knows what that means.

“And you’re okay doing this for synths?”

Danse grits his teeth. “No time for that, yes or no!”

“Nick!” Kaelyn shouts. “Lock the doors! Barricade them if you can!”

“What about you?”

Kaelyn flinches as the terminal above her shatters. “ _Do it!”_

She glances back; Valentine’s expression is as grim and grieving as any human’s before door snaps shut. The heavy thump of the lock engaging somehow peals low like thunder, heard under the slick bolts of laser fire.

Kaelyn exhales heavily, tightens her grip on Deliverer and leans from cover. She fires back amid the storm of lasers and across the aisle Danse does the same, roaring his Brotherhood battle cry.

But the synths keep advancing, drawing closer and closer. Her heart pounds, acutely aware that there is no one watching her other flank.

Danse shouts a warning and she turns, plugging a synth patroller with the remainder of her clip. But more are emerging.

They’re overrun.

Another synth jumps atop the desk and Kaelyn curses, wrenching away from cover in time to avoid the arc of a shock baton—

The air shimmers around Danse’s cover and the rifle is wrenched from his hands. The stealth boy cuts out as the courser slams him back against the wall, one arm pinning his throat.

“M7-97, recall code epsilon two five nacreous—”

Kaelyn gapes. “You’re a synth?”

The last she sees of Danse is the whites of his eyes before he slumps, unconscious, to be dragged away for processing.

A blur in Kaelyn’s peripheral is the only warning she has before her weapon goes flying and she’s slammed face-first into the wall. Heart in her throat, Kaelyn struggles and twists, but the courser’s hands tighten to shackle Kaelyn’s arms with bruising force.

She can’t let them strap Danse down to that thing to destroy his memories, make him pliant, maybe destroy him entirely—

“If you do not comply, you will be incapacitated,” the courser warns with her dead voice.

Kaelyn slams her head back, connecting with cartilage and sunglasses with twin crunches. It doesn’t grant her even a half-second of wriggle room to reach for her knife. The courser grabs her arm and presses until there’s a sickening pop in in her shoulder and Kaelyn chokes back a scream.

Wounded and panting, the courser drags her down the corridor.

Valentine’s old remark about vault designs and fitness instructors springs to mind, no matter how inappropriate, as they scale three staircases to reach the top level. She must be woozy from pain. Kaelyn is marched through another set of offices to reach the Overseer’s domain; the scientists at the desks all turn and stare. There’s Clayton Holdren, his eyebrows hitting his hairline, along with a few other familiar faces she can’t put names to.

The Overseer’s office is spacious, the door flanked by two more coursers. And sitting behind the luxurious desk, haloed by the atrium window, is one Justin Ayo.

His eyes narrow as he takes her in. “This is the cause of the security breach? I should have known. Well done, X4-34.”

This time there’s no Shaun to mediate, to protect Kaelyn from the Institute’s disregard and protect them from her vengeance. Sometimes, respect for her son had been all that kept her civil.

Kaelyn inclines her head, her lips curling. “ _Acting_ Director.”

The jab lands. He rears back, face red from insult. His antics don’t intimidate her one whit. What chills her blood is when he pauses and then shoots her a nasty smile. “If you’ll follow me. I’m certain you’ve been desperate to find your husband—”

The courser forces Kaelyn to her knees when she reels, scrabbling to escape her hold. “What did you do to him, you sonofabitch?”

Justin Ayo tuts. “How very crude. But I expect no better from you, seeing as you chose the surface over the future of humanity. Over your own son. Come along now.”

With a courser on either side, Kaelyn is escorted back the way they came and through maintenance tunnels to an out of the way lab. In the dim emergency lights, she only has the sudden drop in temperature to warn her before her mind makes sense of the blocky shapes that line the walls like fangs.

On one side, a lab table burdened with equipment and terminals. On the other, two stolen cryopods.

Unbidden, Kaelyn’s feet bring her closer to the occupied cryopod, but she already knows. Nate, frozen again. Nothing more than a dark silhouette behind the glass.

Ayo says, “How curious that he’s still alive. Kellogg’s report indicated otherwise. Subject Beta refused to explain how when questioned, but the medical examination showed the gunshot wound he survived.”

Her breath catches on the thorns that wrap around her throat. _Medical examination?_

Ayo continues, “It’s fortunate Father never knew of this. To have both parents destroy him and his work would have been beyond cruel.”

_Oh._

Would Shaun have still called his father collateral damage if he’d had a chance to meet Nate?

Would Nate still blame her for opposing Shaun if he’d seen what their son had become?

And Ayo, damn him, watches her grief with that smug little smile. If not for the fact a courser would break her arm for trying, she’d be sorely tempted to punch that look off his face.

But he isn’t finished gloating. “Cryogenic stasis is the perfect prison for irritating subjects such as yourself. Your choice here is simple. Comply, or I cut off life support to his pod. I’m certain you’re aware of the effects of a life support failure in the cryogenic array.”

When Kaelyn had last looked upon Nate’s frozen face, he’d been dead. Or close enough to. But at least it had been quick for him. Her neighbors hadn’t fared so well when Kellogg came for Shaun.

No.

_No_.

Not again.

Ayo smiles, victory in his eyes. “You’re going to hand over your weapons and step into that cryopod.”

“Nothing is stopping you from killing him anyway, no matter what I do.” But there’s a quaver in Kaelyn’s voice.

Ayo rolls his eyes. “You destroyed all of our samples, centuries of research, and while we could find another subject to revive our synth production, it is simpler—not to mention fitting—that we make use of the backups. Worst comes to worst, I doubt you’ve endured so much radiation you’re no longer fertile.”

She reels. “What? That’s—” Sick? Depraved? Heartless?

Ayo scarcely blinks. If anything, he sounds bored. “The lengths that we are forced to take, thanks to you. I don’t want you or your husband dead. That would be too easy, not to mention a waste of your DNA. If he comes to harm, it will be because of you.”

In the quiet, Kaelyn’s knife-sharp inhale bounces off the walls. Her first impulse is to argue, to remind Ayo he has choices, and if he hurts Nate, _she will kill him_. But her gaze flicks to Nate’s pod, and the cables that connect it to the control panel like an umbilical cord.

She holds her tongue.

Ayo notices, judging by the smirk he gives her. “So you can learn. Now hurry up and decide. His DNA contribution would be ideal for creating a new primary subject, should we need one, but is not required.”

She swallows. “Fine.”

X4-34 confiscates her guns, following up with a brisk pat-down that discovers her switchblade in her boot. Kaelyn hopes the courser can’t feel her galloping pulse, her very veins trembling with fear. She curls her hands into fists to conceal their shaking.

It’s happening again. The end of the world, or the world as she knows it. Her world.

They don’t force Kaelyn into the pod at once. Oh no, they march her to the infirmary for an examination first. She endures the indignity with all the stony disdain she can muster, even with two coursers standing three feet from the gurney they chain her ankle to. They have to hold her down to pop her shoulder back into place while her scream echoes off the cold walls. The stimpak jabbed into her arm barely hurts after that.

When asked if there’s a chance she could be pregnant, Kaelyn grits her teeth and turns her head away. X4-34 grabs her bad shoulder with one hand, her joints made of steel as surely as Valentine’s, and squeezes until Kaelyn gasps, “There’s a chance!”

That leads to a blood test to determine one way or another. The equipment they have looks Vault-Tec issue rather than anything rescued from the Institute.

The test comes up negative. It’s the result Kaelyn expects, but now there’s a measure of relief as well.

With the doctor’s blessing, the coursers escort her back to the makeshift cryogenic array. She hesitates by Nate’s pod to drink in the sight of him. This might be the last time.

Who knows what world she’ll wake up to. If she ever wakes up.

_Nate. I love you._

_Nick. Deacon. Be safe._

X4-34 shoves her, and Kaelyn catches herself on the lid of the pod. Ayo stands by a nearby terminal, and at his nod, X4-34 pushes her one last time. She trips over the step, almost faceplants into the leather upholstery, and turns just in time for the lid to slam shut. The sound of it is like the swing of an executioner’s ax.

Behind the semi-privacy of the closed lid, the shakes return. her breaths are so very loud. Being a jury-rig, this one doesn’t even do her courtesy of counting down as the mechanics hum around her to release their chemical cocktail.

Fear is the last sense to fade.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to ScorpioSkies for betaing!
> 
> CW for mentions of reproductive violence.

The first thing she knows is cold.

Blinking away the frost crusted on her eyelids, Kaelyn draws in a sudden breath as the ice caging her chest gives way. Her eyes focus, and she realizes where she is. The walls are too close, too tight, and the space beyond the porthole is too dark—

Panic grips her arms, forces her to ram her fists against the lid once, twice, and it finally gives. Coughing and spluttering, she struggles to breathe through the rush of air that breaks the seal on the pod. She tumbles out, pain grazing her palms and knees.

Shards of ice slice through her temples to strike the fragile bone underneath.

Hands shake her shoulder. Small, hot hands.

_Mom?_

She blinks, shakes her head. Last time she hadn’t heard voices.

“Mom? Mom, are you okay?”

Those hands again, tugging at her collar. Kaelyn rears back to sit on her heels, willing her eyes to focus.

Her own eyes, flecked with Nate’s green, stare back, set in a boy’s face. His skin is several shades lighter than hers, but his unruly mop of hair is the exact same chestnut.

“Shaun?”

“Mom!” He wraps his arms around her with enough force to knock her back.

Kaelyn can only sit there, feeling Shaun’s small body press against hers, his hair brushing the underside of her chin as he buries his face in her neck. It touches the dusty spaces of her heart that used to sing her baby to sleep, used to stand by his crib and wonder what he would he grow to be. The moment she’d met Shaun, an old man, in the Institute, that part of her that hoped for future hugs and bedtime stories had shriveled.

She lifts her arms, slow, hesitant, to rest on Shaun’s back. Tentative. He hugs her all the tighter for it.

_He has been reprogrammed to believe you’re his mother._

She swallows.

Extracting herself from the vice of his arms, Kaelyn crouches down to grab his shoulders. Checks herself when panic makes her hands squeeze too tightly. “How long was I in there for? How long?”

“You mean in the freezer? Just a few days—”

The remainder of Shaun’s answer is drowned out by a high-pitched drone that overwhelms her hearing. “Oh! It’s okay, we’re okay. We’re okay.”

Shaun cocks his head on the side. “Of course we are,” he says. “You’re here.”

Kaelyn’s heart cracks clean in two.

She is— is not equipped to deal with this right now. Clearing her throat doesn’t dislodge the lump of guilt now lodged there. “Okay. Right. Give me a moment. I need to think…”

They’re not in Vault 111. It doesn’t look like Bay C. And Shaun is here.

Kaelyn tries to scan the room, but her gaze is drawn back to Shaun as surely as if it’s magnetized. “How did you get here, Shaun? Are you supposed to be here?”

“I’m not supposed to be inside the labs, but they used to let me in Advanced Systems back in the Institute.” He scuffs one foot on the floor, and when she doesn’t chastise him for being bad, he grows more confident. “I heard someone mention you and I had to find you. It’s been nice enough in here, but people give me odd looks and I missed you.”

Kaelyn sniffles. Her nose is running. “Okay. Thank you for getting me out of there.”

The other cryo pod catches her attention. On shaky feet, Kaelyn reaches Nate’s cryo pod. Behind the glass, his silhouette is dark and cold and lifeless.

No. He’s still alive. He has to be.

“Show me how you thawed me out.”

Shaun skips by to the nearby controls and presses several buttons on the adjacent control panel. Something deep in the machinery groans, woken from slumber, and the pod cycles through the thawing procedure. Kaelyn watches the frost recede on the porthole, color blooming anew across Nate’s body—the auburn of his hair, the fair cream of his freckled skin, the green of his jacket. He shifts on the uncomfortable upholstery, eyes flickering open.

Relief smashes her chest with enough force to splinter bone.

Kaelyn has to spring back as the lid opens. Nate scrambles out, but she’s ready to catch him. He tumbles straight into her arms, and she braces to take his weight and lowers him to the ground. He clutches at her elbows for balance, torn between seeking her warmth and wanting to see her face. Her bad shoulder aches, but she ignores it.

“Kaelyn?”

As she’s leaning over him, Nate pushes up through those last inches separating them. Nate’s lips are dry and cracked and it’s the best kiss Kaelyn has ever experienced. His breath like opening a refrigerator. She pulls away too soon for Nate’s taste, and he makes a noise of complaint.

Kaelyn hauls him to his feet with her good arm; he doesn’t let go when he’s standing. No, he pulls her into another hug and buries his nose in her hair. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, she never wants to let him go. “I was so worried. When you didn’t come out of Med-Tek…”

“There was this flash of light and I ended up here. Bastards had me outgunned, but I made ‘em work for it. Then they… shoved me in here.”

Kaelyn pulls back enough to see his face. Was that just a pause, or did he edit part of the summary? “What did they do to you?”

There it is, that little flicker of hesitation. “Nothing I can’t handle. But now that the cavalry’s arrived, we should get out of here. ASAP.”

That reminds her—Valentine, Genevieve, Danse. Where are they? How many synths made it out? “We’re not out of the woods yet. Valentine and I investigated the vault and freed the synths they’d imprisoned, but we were separated. I was caught and put in cryo as well. I don’t know who made it out safely.”

“Plans never survive contact with the enemy,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “We have to assume we’re on our own.”

Kaelyn should let him go, but instead she pulls him tighter against her, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Ew, why are grown-ups like this?”

Nate notices Shaun for the first time, eyebrow cocked, and his returning wisecrack dies on his tongue. He looks Shaun over, and when his gaze cuts to Kaelyn, it’s clear he knows.

Kaelyn clears her throat and asks Shaun, “How did you end up in the vault?”

“The people who took me out of the Institute were taking me to a new home, then Mr Ayo found me. I wonder what happened to Blackwell and Scrapper. They were nice.”

Kaelyn has low hopes for a happy ending for the escort, but now more than ever she needs to wrangle her expression under control.

Shaun continues, “They told me you were dead, but I never believed them! You wouldn’t leave me like that, right?”

Across the room from them, Nate shoots her a pointed look.

There’ll be a discussion later, oh yes.

Shaun squeaks and sniffles, then, and that tiny sound is enough to crumble the two halves of her heart to dust. Guilt claws at her, digging into her tender flesh, cutting her open.

“But I knew you weren’t!” he insists.

“It’s okay. We can talk later.” To distract everyone—or maybe even return to the situation at hand—Kaelyn asks, “You don’t happen to know where our equipment is being stored, do you?”

“I do!” Shaun bolts to an adjoining room and points to the lockers lining the wall. “I saw them put your stuff in there.”

Nate crosses the room in a heartbeat to pull open the lockers, one by one, until he finds his stowed gear. He snorts. “Not very secure.”

“Count your blessings, hon. The cryo pods are inescapable from the inside.” She pulls her own jacket out of her locker, checking it’s still in protective condition. It sports a few laser burns, but the ballistic weave has done its job. Her belt with its many pouches is a comfortable weight around her waist, and Deliverer sits at her hip.

Nate doesn’t miss the way she gingerly slings her sniper rifle over her shoulder. “Are you injured?”

“Shoulder was dislocated, then shoved back in place. Not sure which one was more painful.”

“Come here.” He hooks a finger through her belt to tug her closer, then carefully runs his hands over her shoulder, prodding here and there. Kaelyn fights the occasional wince when he presses down on the throbbing ache. “Everything’s still where it should be, but be careful. We’ll tape it up properly when we get a moment. Don’t use your sniper rifle if you can avoid it. Want a stimpak?”

She shakes her head. “We might need them later.” If there’s one good part to being in labor for two days, it’s that her pain threshold was already high before Vault 111 spat her into the Wasteland.

“This looks so cool!” They both turn to see Shaun wobbling with Kaelyn’s Railway Rifle in his arms. “Who built it?”

“Careful with that.” Kaelyn claims her Railway Rifle and the rest of her weapons, pulling them out of Shaun’s reach as Nate does the same. She checks the safety on them all. “A friend built this for me.”

“I took a hot plate apart and built a mini robot with it, but Dr Guzman took it away and said I’m not supposed to do that.”

Since Shaun had become the Institute’s Director, his gift for science had been apparent. But this—well. She wonders if her son also had a flair for mechanics, possibly squashed by his guardians, or if this is a unique interest for the boy in front of her.

“We need to move,” Nate says. “Who knows how long we’ve got until someone realizes none of us are where we should be. Know the way to the exit?”

Kaelyn nods, then shakes her head. “There was someone with me. Danse. The Institute dragged him off and— I need to know what happened to him.”

Unbidden, she recalls Justin Ayo blithely explaining the synth reclamation process, a lifetime ago. _Synths that continue to malfunction have to be disposed of._

She expects a Brotherhood Paladin to have a strong will. Perhaps enough to resist a memory wipe. He’d probably prefer to die than be stripped to servitude.

He fought beside her, so she can’t leave him. Can’t leave the other synths that are enslaved here. And who knows if Valentine and Dogmeat made their escape.

Nate glances at Shaun, then back to Kaelyn. “Picking a fight is going to be risky with a kid in tow. And don’t you dare suggest we split up.”

“I wasn’t going to. We get Shaun out safely, find out what happened to my people, then come back with an army.”

They have a brief tussle over who takes the lead, but Kaelyn’s knowledge of the vault’s layout wins, while Nate takes the rear and Shaun is sandwiched between them. Even if he’s too valuable to kill, a stray shot can still be deadly.

Kaelyn holds up a fist and slinks up to the intersection to peer around the corners. Empty. She turns around to gesture for the others to follow only to see Nate resting a hand on Shaun’s shoulder to keep him still. Getting attached is a bad idea, but Nate meets her arched eyebrow with a defiant tilt of his chin.

Consternation aside, they dart down the corridor and find a hiding spot in a dark alcove at the first clank of a passing patrol. This time it’s a single synth. Third gen. If not for the boy crouched beside her, Kaelyn might have attempted to talk with the synth.

For several moments she gets a clear look at his face; wooden, eyes blank, like all the synths in the Institute’s control. She wonders if he’s affecting that soullessness, or if he genuinely believes he’s nothing more than an instrument of the Institute’s will.

She wonders if Danse wears that face now.

Either he had been returned to the cell block, or they fast-tracked his appointment with the reclamation chair. Kaelyn fights a shiver.

As the minutes crawl by and no alarm blares, Kaelyn grows more on edge. She has to remind herself it isn’t as though two frozen prisoners require a guard. And unless Ayo has a habit of taunting foes who can’t hear him, he’d have no reason to go down there himself.

They make their way to the cell block, avoiding the atrium at all costs, which adds extra time onto their journey. The molecular relay will no doubt be guarded, but if the Institute is convinced they put down the minor rebellion, then—

“You there!”

Kaelyn spins on one heel. Nate yanks Shaun behind him, shielding him with his body, and raises his gun—

The armored synth patroller is none other than Danse.

“Hold your fire!” Kaelyn barks, imbuing it with enough force that both men pause, their respective military training kicking in. “Danse?” She takes a step forward, hesitating when he tenses, scowl fixed on her. “No matter what they told you, that’s your name—”

A pucker forms between his eyebrows. “I know.”

“You—know? Do you still remember your life? Didn’t the procedure work?”

“No,” he says, “it didn’t.”

Relief grips her, all the tighter for its unexpected strength. “Guess it isn’t so easy to remake the reclamation chair from scrap metal.”

“I was not… the first to undergo the memory-wiping procedure.” The tendons in his neck stand out, attaching to the tense line of his shoulders. “Nor the first it failed to wipe. I was told by another to pretend it worked. I don’t know how many are in the same situation. But I do know that since the outbreak, they have been wiping all synths under their control, as quickly as they are able without burning out the system.”

“All of them?” Kaelyn repeats.

Danse’s eyes darken. “If they remember the outbreak, they might attempt another.”

She grits her teeth. “Dammit.”

Shaun looks between them. “You mean the chair in processing? They said I could try it out when they knew it was safe—”

Kaelyn stops dead. “They what?”

“It’s a simulator, where you can see cool stuff, but when people woke up after using it, they were… different. So I tried to fix it.”

Kaelyn still feels faint. “You’re saying you modified the reclamation chair?”

Shaun puffs up his chest. “Yup! D2-33 helped me do it in secret. Ayo never likes having me around, and he doesn’t want me in here, and nobody wanted to fix what was wrong with it. But I didn’t want anyone getting hurt, Mom.”

“That’s my boy,” Nate says. A smile softens his face despite the circumstances.

Kaelyn grips Shaun’s shoulder. “Listen to me. You were right that the chair hurts people, and I’m proud of you for trying to fix it. Do not, under any circumstances, sit down on it, okay?”

He frowns at her. “Okay, Mom.”

Again with the knife sliding fast and cold between her ribs. Danse’s thick brows rise in surprise, then snap down into a fresh suspicious scowl. Over Shaun’s head, Kaelyn shakes her head in warning. Now’s not the time. And even if Danse is a synth himself—and the irony of _that_ is not lost on her—he still used to be a Brotherhood Paladin. Who knows how he’d take the revelation they made synthetic children.

And then there’s Shaun himself. Does he even know his nature?

Later. There’ll be time for that later.

“We’re vulnerable here,” Nate says. His gaze lingers on Shaun, but this time it isn’t just because he’s an aged-up ghost of their baby, but because he’s a child in what will become a battlefield. “We need to keep moving.”

At least this distracts Danse. “Agreed. What’s your plan?”

“We found you, so now we need to get Shaun out of here and rescue any remaining synths.”

Danse’s eyebrows soar learning she’d been searching for him specifically. “As much as I dislike it, I recommend a strategic retreat to return with a proper fighting force to destroy this remnant.”

Kaelyn asks, “Do you know what happened to Valentine and the others?”

“To my knowledge, they evacuated via the relay with the other synths we escorted.”

She sighs in relief. “That’s something, at least.”

They keep moving, Danse falling in beside Kaelyn. While she’s glad for another fighter to protect Shaun, his heavy footfalls make her twitchy. She isn’t sure what’s worse: the winding corridors with their low tunnel-like ceilings or the vast rooms with their bright lights and open space and too many doors to watch. Either way, if she never has to enter a vault again, she can die happy.

An alarm blares.

“We’re officially on a time limit!” Nate calls from the back. “Move!”

Kaelyn darts to the intersection and peers around the corner. It’s empty but for a sealed door and a stack of crates. “Clear!”

They’re almost to the end of the corridor when they hear robotic footfalls.

Shaun peers between the adults. “What’s tha—?”

Kaelyn hushes him with a hand, then points to the room they passed. Nate tries the door. Locked.

The footsteps grow closer.

They retreat down the corridor, only to hear two panicky voices coming down the direction they came from.

Heart in her throat, Kaelyn grabs her screwdriver to unscrew the front panel. The alarm is louder than the thunder of her heart. She’s seen Valentine do something similar more than once. Danse and Nate take positions between her and the intersections, and she pulls Shaun close to shield him with her body.

The circuitry is unfamiliar, and Kaelyn needs precious seconds to make sense of it. The footsteps are almost on them now.

Nate grabs her elbow to drag her across the hallway to the stack of crates. The pile is huge, but as they hunker down behind the boxes, Kaelyn is all-too-aware of how Nate’s knee sticks out the side and Danse’s hair is visible over the top of the stack. Across the hall, the control panel sits discarded on the floor, as bold as a pool of blood.

Then the footsteps round the corner.

A squad of synths—a mix of second and third gens—marches past. They don’t look sideways, and they don’t notice the group of escapees huddling behind a stack of crates.

The PA system crackles. “ _Attention all personnel. A hostile force has gathered to destroy us. Synth units are being deployed to the exit zone. All coursers and SRB personnel are to report to the exit zone. All non-essential personnel are to report to the atrium. Director Ayo out.”_

They trade looks, but no one dares to speak. Around the corner, the synth force meets the owners of the panicky voices. Then they fade to silence.

Nate’s the first to whisper, “Did he just say ‘hostile force’?”

“He did,” Danse says. “If we’re fortunate, the synths we evacuated were able to assemble a strike team to assault the vault.”

Shaun’s eyes go as wide as saucers. “You mean like when the Institute was attacked the first time?”

Kaelyn returns to the lock and, without the threat of imminent discovery, she figures out how to complete the circuit so the door groans open. Glancing about the room, she finds more Vault-Tec crates scattered around the corners. Opening the largest, she finds that it’s fortuitously empty. Drawing Deliverer, she risks putting two bullet holes in the crate to guarantee an oxygen supply.

Kaelyn turns to Shaun. “Stay here. We need to know what’s ahead and if it’s safe. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

He heaves a sigh in the way that only a ten-year-old can. “Fine. But don’t forget me back here.”

Kaelyn helps him inside the crate and carefully seals the lid, double checking he has air.

“We need to move quickly,” Nate suggests. “Suppressor or no, someone might have heard the shots.”

They creep to the exit, dogged by the piercing alarm. Kaelyn prowls ahead of the others, raising a fist for them to halt a few corridors away from the exit zone so they won’t attract attention with their less-than-stellar sneaking abilities. With Nate and Danse hiding in an abandoned office, Kaelyn hits her stealth boy and creeps up to the door of the exit zone.

No one notices when the door seemingly opens of its own accord. They’re all facing the exit, with synths at the front and humans at the back. The synths are immediately distinguishable from humans, and not because the humans wear different uniforms. The old gen synths are utterly still but for the whirr of their processors, the coursers are stone-carved, and the remaining third gens have the petrified silence of a frozen animal fearful of the predator lurking nearby. Ayo himself is nowhere to be seen.

This is not going to be pretty.

A new alarm blares, and the door begins to cycle through its unlocking procedure—only for a security officer to shout. The technician by the door controls madly pushes buttons and the mechanics groan to a halt and the alarms die. The lights by the door are still red.

Retreating with care, Kaelyn drops her stealth field when she reaches the others. Nate is used to that trick by now and Danse is too stoic to rattle so easily.

“Three coursers, maybe twenty old gens—and a number of them look hastily repaired—and a dozen or so third gens. Plus maybe five or so SRB agents. Whoever’s outside is attempting to open the vault, but it can be overridden from the inside.”

Danse asks, “Who is capable of unsealing a vault?”

Kaelyn glances down to her wrist, but her pip-boy isn’t there. “I gave my pip-boy to Genevieve. The cavalry’s arrived.”

Nate says, “If they’re just stopping the front door from opening, they’re sticking to defense. Don’t want a fight.”

“That door is their greatest advantage,” Kaelyn replies. “As long as they halt the intrusion attempt, they’re safe.”

Danse’s scoff is barely audible. “They know they’ll lose to an assault force.”

“They lost their headquarters a few months back in a similar manner,” Kaelyn says. “No wonder they’re jumpy. This must be deja vu for them, and they’re severely weakened this time.”

“Then we take advantage of their weakness.”

Kaelyn says, “My stealth boy still works. If I get to the door controls, I can let our guys in.”

Nate’s jaw clenches. “You’ll be exposed in the middle of the room.”

She draws in a breath. “I know. The moment my stealth field drops, you and Danse make a commotion. Between you and the door opening, there should be enough chaos for me to get to cover.”

“It’s a risky maneuver,” Danse says, “but our only option right now.”

Nate concedes begrudgingly, but he pulls Kaelyn in for a short, hard embrace before they prowl to the exit zone. The Institute personnel are rattled, shifting from foot to foot, wiping sweaty palms on their uniforms, and their unease bleeds out to the third gens. It’s worth a wager that the only thing keeping them in check is the presence of coursers.

Kaelyn leaves Nate and Danse crouched on either side of the door.

She treads carefully, hypervigilant for the slightest tell that she’s been discovered. She approaches the first line of bodies. The SRB scientists are spread out, monitoring the lines of synths before them. She sees the laser pistols holstered to their thighs, the nervous twitch of their fingers as they tap their firearms as though to guarantee their presence.

The shock batons they keep in hand. The humans are nowhere near as intimidating as the coursers, but they offer another reason for the gen three’s to stay in line.

Kaelyn holds her breath as she ghosts between them, silently praying that they don’t detect her shadow in the lights. If they detect the air stirring between them they give no sign, too busy watching the synths and door between shared nervous glances.

One obstacle down. Too many to go.

She’s moving slowly, far too slowly. The stealth field will only last so long, and its battery life is already depleted. She quickens her step as she approaches the first of the synth ranks, a mixture of gen twos and threes.

She slips between a battered gen one synth and a gen three.

The gen three’s head snaps towards her and Kaelyn freezes. The synth glances around, her eyes bulging when a menacing crackle sounds from the nearest shock baton. Her head snaps back towards the door and she doesn’t see the faint shimmer as Kaelyn presses ahead, heart hammering wildly.

That was too close, but she can’t stop. She has to do this.

She’s two rows away when the stealth boy falters. For a moment, her body flickers into view. The gen two behind her whirs. “Is someone present?”

The surrounding synths turn to look, all eyes fixating upon the spot where the gen two continues to stare. Their distraction is a blessing as Kaelyn slips through the last row, into the bubble of space surrounding the control panel.

The stealth boy flickers as she approaches the door technician. Then it dies.

Kaelyn’s running before the first shout goes up, raising Deliverer to strike the door technician on the back of the head with the grip. He crumples and she has the controls.

A black shadow surges in her peripheral vision as she punches the buttons, deactivating the override. The alarmed shouts of the scientists are lost in a sudden barrage of laser fire from the doorway at the back, and in the split second the courser hesitates to assess the new threat, Kaelyn triggers the opening procedure.

“No!”

The alarms blare again, drowning out the panicked cries of the synths and scientists.

Kaelyn turns just as the courser reaches her and fires, point blank into his face. The door sequence cycles uninterrupted, the exit zone in chaos as the synths struggle to identify the greater threat. The remaining two coursers flank the vault door, rallying the nearest gen ones and twos to aid them.

The door rolls to the side and a force of wastelanders charge in. Hot-red lasers flash defiantly against the Institute’s cyan, muskets blaring alongside the staccato of gunfire from assorted weapons.

The coursers fire with deadly precision, their shots combined with those of the gen ones and two smiting the attackers and reducing some to ash. As bodies fall on the walkway they impede the invading Minutemen, slowing them down and making them easier targets.

In the chaos, Kaelyn has become an afterthought. She seizes the advantage with both hands, taking aim at the nearest courser. She fires rapidly, her shots biting into the synth’s armoured coat.

The courser falls back, shielding themselves amongst the ranks of gen ones and twos just as a rapid burst of laser fire smites their counterpart.

“For the Commonwealth!” A voice roars, and Kaelyn spies Preston’s hat amongst the Minutemen who now charge across the catwalk with renewed vigour. Their fire and ferocity thin out the mechanical synths, and while some blank-faced gen three’s stand their ground alongside the remainder, others retreat to the nearest available cover and hide.

A laser scores the sleeve of Kaelyn’s jacket and she ducks away, glimpsing the one-armed gen one before its head explodes in a shower of metal and sparks. She glimpses a flash of sunglasses and a black wig before her savior disappears into the chaos of battle.

Overwhelmed and boxed in by Nate and Danse’s suppressing fire, the Institute’s remaining forces are quelled.

As the sounds of battle fade, Kaelyn sucks in breath after breath to prove she’s still alive. Bodies are scattered across the floor, blood mingling with coolant fluids.

“Hon!”

Nate reaches her side to pull her sideways into a hug. Kaelyn wraps her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest so she can feel the thundering of his heart.

_We’re still alive._

“There you are!” Preston jogs towards them. “Boy am I glad to see you both in one piece.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Kaelyn says, reluctantly untangling herself from her husband. She squeezes Preston’s shoulder. “Genevieve made it out?”

“She and a whole lot of other people. Don’t worry, they’re safe. Your friend Deacon showed up and I figured he could handle those particular folks.”

“You’re a saint.” Kaelyn squeezes his shoulder again.

“He offered to round up more volunteers for our rescue mission, so I’m thankful.” Preston briefly covers her hand with his own. “If you want, we can get you and Nate out of here.”

Nate says, “Generous offer, but I’m not going anywhere until I know the Institute won’t hurt my family again.”

Kaelyn nods. “Agreed.”

Preston looks between them, but whatever he sees convinces him not to push the issue. “You’ve got five minutes to collect yourselves, then we’re heading in.”

Under his watchful eye, the living synths are shuffled off to one corner, and Institute personnel to another. He organizes the Minutemen forces into several groups, some to guard and others to prep for a trek into the vault.

“What is it with you and vaults?” Deacon appears suddenly by Kaelyn’s side, no stealth boy required.

“There you are.” She bumps her shoulder against his, the closest either of them will get to a hug right now. “Where’s Nick? Is he okay?”

“Right here, partner.” The nearby crowd parts for the trench coat and fedora, and Valentine has no compunctions about pulling her into a one-armed hug right now. “Hated leavin’ ya, but I couldn’t fight ’em all off on my lonesome. Dogmeat’s safe at Sanctuary. Looks like you found your man, as well. Nice to see you in one piece, Nate.”

Nate claps Valentine on the shoulder. “Good to see you too, buddy.”

In the eye of the storm, Preston calls, “Assault team, assemble at the door!”

“That’s our cue,” Deacon says, cranking Kaelyn’s laser musket. “Dez wants this place gone, and she’s the boss.”

After just escaping Vault 75, it’s an odd situation to turn around and return to its depths. Except that this time there’s no need for stealth or subterfuge or anything of the sort, even if Deacon winces at the noise. No, they storm down the corridors, eliminating old gen synths, disarming third gens, and locking Institute personnel in closets. Those that surrender, at least, and the few that they encounter aren’t quick to die needlessly against an assault force, no matter how quickly they order their synths to do the same. Having already decimated the bulk of the Institute’s defenders, it’s all too easy.

Kaelyn directs their group to the room where they left Shaun. She crouches in front of his hiding place and says, “It’s me. I’m going to open the crate, okay?”

There’s a squeak of excitement inside, and when she lifts the lid, Shaun springs up like a jack-in-the-box. “You came back!”

“I did.” She helps him out of the crate, then ushers Deacon over. “See Deacon? He’s going to get you someplace safe, okay?”

To her surprise, the delicate bow of Shaun’s mouth tips downward in a pout. “You’re coming back for me, right? You aren’t going to leave me?”

She—hesitates. It’s not a promise any combatant should ever make, not when luck is a fickle beast. Nate’s gaze, heavy as jade, rests on the back of her neck. “I’m coming back.”

Shaun grips the collar of her shirt as she makes to stand. “Do you promise?”

It’s the quickest way to get him out of here and into safe hands, so she says, “I promise.”

Shaun throws his arms around her neck, with unexpected strength in his wiry arms. She rests one hand on his back. “Bye, Mom.”

Gently untangling herself from his grip, Kaelyn gives him a light push. “Go on.”

Deacon beckons to Shaun and they backtrack to the exit zone.

Turning around, Kaelyn discovers Nate’s appraising gaze. “What?”

He lets her sweat for a moment before responding, “Nothing we have time for now.”

The atrium’s doors are sealed, but it only takes Valentine a few minutes to bypass the lock and force it open. When the doors part, the atrium holds its breath. The cheery colors are at odds with the pallor of fear.

There’s a line of synths at the front, all third-gen, evidently intended to be the last line of defense for the people behind them. Seeing them now, cowering under tables in the cafeteria—its red and white checker pattern reminding Kaelyn of Vault 81 and pie—she can’t help the measure of pity.

“Hold your fire!” she shouts.

It’s enough to give everyone in the room pause.

And yet, enough of their own people cast incredulous looks in her direction that Nate echoes the order. His months as a drillmaster pay off when the remaining Minutemen stand down, even if the Railroad agents aren’t so easily swayed.

“Where’s Justin Ayo?” Kaelyn calls, pitching her voice to carry around the cavernous room. She glances up to the Overseer’s window, but two hundred years of grime cloud it like a milky eye.

No one says anything, possibly out of shock that the invasion force hasn’t shot them yet. Until one synth in the front line lifts a shaking hand from his pistol to point at the Overseer’s office.

Kaelyn risks a glance behind her, to her people. “Stay here and guard them. I’ll take a small group to secure Ayo.”

“Your call,” Preston says. “The Minutemen are with you all the way.”

As much as she’d like to bring him with her, she needs someone down here who can maintain control and prevent any mob justice. Danse falls in behind Preston to lend his impressive glower to maintaining order. There isn’t even any point asking Nate if he wants to come with her, and she invites Valentine along too. Kaelyn leads the way up the stairs, bursting into the attached offices to find the surviving upper echelon of project leads, including Bioscience head Clayton Holdren.

Nate steps past her, and before she can direct the muzzle of his rifle to the ground, he roars, “Everybody on the ground! Now!”

Nate’s bark does the trick, clearing the way to the Overseer’s office. After a brief tussle with the lock, they’re in.

It would have been more satisfying to say she stormed into the room to find Ayo hiding under his luxurious Overseer’s desk, but it’s only half true. He cringes when the doors hiss open, half-hunkering behind the counter without even a courser to guard him. But then he draws himself up, snatching the laser pistol off his desk. “So here we are again. Since Father couldn’t even persuade you when he stood in my position, I certainly have no hope.”

And oh, the acid dripping from his tongue. It seeks to strip the scabs from Kaelyn’s wounded heart, but she draws in a breath and lets the pain wash over her.

Kaelyn takes a step forward. Deliverer remains pointed at the ground. “What were you planning for Shaun?”

“Unit S9-23 should never have been programmed to believe you’re his mother. I plan to rectify that.”

The world constructs to the balding man behind the desk and his insufferable smirk. “Do it, and there is no place on earth where I won’t hunt you down.”

He sneers. “How very civilized. You’re no better than the petty scavengers up here. Father always said you were above their tribal tendencies. How very wrong he was.”

This time, Kaelyn laughs. Low and throaty and genuinely amused. “If I were a primitive scavver, you’d all be dead for what you’ve done. No, I’m going to draw on some old world customs and offer you a deal. Here are your options. One, we fight it out, again, some of my people die, and some of your people die. If you lose, this time you’re dead. Two, you surrender into Minutemen custody. Your people get food and beds, and we know you won’t be causing trouble anymore.”

“Surrender? To you? So you can keep us prisoner? I think not!”

Kaelyn shrugs. “It’s kinder than the hospitality wastelanders endured under your roof.”

That rattles him. His hands twitch around the laser pistol. “Why? What purpose can you possibly have for keeping us alive?”

With a mocking smile, Kaelyn says, “For the future of humanity, of course. A future on the surface. Which, may I remind you, you’re now a part of. Congratulations.”

“And what’s stopping me from ordering my people to kill you?”

“You used your own people as meat shields,” Nate scoffs. “You think they’re gonna listen to you now?”

Ayo’s eyes dart between Kaelyn, her backup, and the room at large behind them, where the staff are unashamedly eavesdropping. He swallows. Wets his lips. “We—accept.”


End file.
